


All the Past We Leave Behind

by CharlieBravoWhiskey



Series: Faster on the Draw [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Other, Wild West
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-27 12:06:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 29,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/978666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharlieBravoWhiskey/pseuds/CharlieBravoWhiskey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There's always a man faster on the draw than you are, and the more you use a gun, the sooner you're gonna run into that man." </p><p>- Gunfight at the O.K. Corral</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Don’t Know Who He is or What He’s Done

**Author's Note:**

  * For [roane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roane/gifts), [Pati79](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pati79/gifts).



> Oh, god.
> 
> *This* story has nearly killed me at one time or another. It still might, you know. Once upon a time, long ago and far away, a naive writer submitted a snippet to Roane's ask-box on Tumblr. One thing led to another and all of a sudden I'm writing backstories, mapping characters, and plotting without an end.
> 
> Thanks goes out to Bootsnblossoms, turifer, aderyn, and to countless many others who have helped, prodded, pushed, and pleaded with me to get this story at least posted. I am very, very sorry if I have missed naming you. Let me know.
> 
> All mistakes are mine - despite the best efforts of anangrylittlehobbit and many others - so, if you see something off, please let me know.
> 
> All comments, questions, and grammar checks are welcome.

_Dakota Territories, late 1888_

John Watson sat high up on a weathered rock watching the stage coach fly fast along the lonely dusty road.  Behind the stage coach, half a dozen men on horseback were shooting their guns in the air and whooping wildly, threatening to overtake the stage coach. _Damn it_ , John thought, and brought his rifle to his good shoulder. _Every damn time._ John took careful aim and began picking off the riders one by one, sending their horses in different directions. _One for Mary. Two for Harry. Three for Mum. Four for Da. Five for England. Six for me._

John wearily set his rifle down and watched with narrowed eyes as the coach finally made its way into the dusty, dirty, and slightly dreamlike town. Since sliding into the preposterously named town of Westbrook - no babbling brook was to be found north, south, east or west of the town - John had become Sheriff Lestrade's unofficial second-in-command, helping the beleaguered sheriff in any way he could. He smoothed things over with the girls at Madame Adler's bordello; helped Mrs. Hudson collect wayward rent money from her boarders; and thrown many a drunkard out of Sally Donovan's bar. John even had time to actually practice medicine, which was a source of wry amusement to him. Since he left England, John didn't think he would ever want to practice medicine again.

It was a markedly different life from the one he had led in London with Mary but then again, John hadn't been able to imagine a life after the war or Mary's painful death so he didn't complain. John passed by Mary's memorial pausing to rest his head on the makeshift headstone. His heart ached less and less as time passed, but John didn't want to let Mary go entirely. He lost a lot of himself when John lost her, letting Mary go seemed like giving up.

John Watson did not suffer fools gladly; as he watched the stranger descend from the stage coach ( _the only passenger_ , he noted) John couldn’t stop his automatic eyeroll.  The stranger was dressed as if he belonged in Windsor Castle, not in the wild west of America.    _Fool_. _He won’t last a week here_ , John thought. 

He leaned against Sheriff Gregory Lestrade’s weathered doorway, bringing the brim of his hat down closer over his eyes.  John was aware of everyone and everything in the town square, noting any possible dangers to himself and to the civilians.  After his years serving Queen Victoria in the Royal Army, John Watson wasn’t a man to miss anything, especially the type of beguiling “anything,” in the form of one Miss Irene Adler (recently of New Jersey by way or Europe). _It seems that everyone wants to take a look at him_ , John thought as Irene came into view to stare at the newcomer.      

John quietly chuckled to himself as he remembered his own entrance into Westbrook.   _I think I hate it here,_ he thought that day.  There wasn’t a friendly face amongst the townsfolk; there was the vast wilderness waiting to take back what was her’s and to top it off there was his own paranoia that someone was going to track him down.  John shivered at the memory.  He was still paranoid but he managed to keep his emotions in check, most of the time.   

“Miss Adler,” John said politely, trying not to eye the ample bosom displayed, the creamy skin unmarred by the sun and the soft pinkness of her lips.  He willed his body not to betray his straying thoughts and coughed softly.  After adjusting himself discreetly, John smiled wryly.  He knew that a woman such as Miss Adler would be one to miss his body’s reaction to her.  She would not be the preeminent madame of the Dakota Territories if she missed such subtle and intimate details of the arousals of men and women.   

"Oh, my.  Who's the stranger?"  Irene Adler asked, sidling up to John's right side.  "He looks delicious."  John sensed that Miss Adler was licking her lips, which did nothing to help him temper his arousal.  “Not that you don’t look delicious yourself, Doctor Watson,” she said, and briefly turned her full attention to the stoic man beside her. John fought his blush but couldn’t do anything to hide his face.  

Irene winked at him before watching the stranger acclimate to his surroundings. She laughed, amused at the scene in front of them.   _She’s a smart one_ , John thought, glancing at Irene before looking back.  

John bit back his smile, made a gruff sound, and continued to watch the driver unload an ungodly amount of luggage from the top, all the while being berated by the passenger.   _Ah, another Englishman.  The fool has a lot of luggage.  Has he been banished from some decrepit English estate, the black sheep of a prominent and well-known family?  Is he hiding something?_ John carefully pushed these thoughts away from his mind.  He no longer thought of England - much - since setting foot ( _Running, Watson, running, there’s been no rest since you set foot here._ ) on American soil.  John felt Irene’s dark and strangely luminous eyes on him and he turned to face her with a questioning expression. 

"Oh, John," Irene said, putting her gloved hand on his face.  Her palm - even through a layer of fabric - was much too warm for his liking.  He imagined her slightly rough skin on his and smell the scent of her delicate perfume.  “You must really come to my place,” she said softly, her thumb rubbing the skin under his eye gently.  “I’m sure we can find some pretty young thing who will suit your needs.  Perhaps a perky redhead?  A demure raven-haired beauty?  How about a blushing blonde?"  John wanted very badly to push her away from him, telling her to leave him alone.  Deep down, however, he felt that Irene Adler was offering him a chance to forget and a chance to heal.   

John wanted Mary back, but he knew this was impossible.  

"Leave me alone, Ms. Adler," John said through gritted teeth, regretting the outburst immediately. 

"Oh my, you do bite.  I like that," Irene said half mocking, half surprised, but otherwise kept quiet as she focused her attention on the mysterious stranger. “My dear Doctor Watson, I do believe our stranger will be providing us hours upon hours of entertainment.” 

“Why do you say that?” John said, curiosity finally piqued, his quick temper faded.  He glanced back at the handsomely dressed stranger and wondered if he hated the dust and grime already. 

“Just look at those cheekbones, the cut of his suit, and the way he holds himself.  This gentleman is made of money and used to the finer things in life.  Oh, yes, Doctor Watson.  This stranger will be fun,” Irene said, her eyes sparkling with the mystery of the unknown.  “Shall we go down and introduce ourselves?” 

John smiled a bitterly.  “No thank you, Miss Adler.  Go on.  Give him a proper hello from the town, will you?” 

“Oh, Doctor Watson,” Irene said, laughing, “I intend to give him all I have.” 

“I was afraid of that,” John said finally, letting his smirk show. 

*** 

Irene adjusted her clothing and the umbrella she held in her hands.  Despite the nature of her business, Irene was not a completely heartless and wanton individual.  She truly wanted her customers happy and satisfied.  While she did relish the money, Irene Adler was the type of person who loved seeing the inner workings of people.  She was a curious person and regularly used her charms to dig a little deeper into the mind of her clients, even if it did not currently serve her any purpose.   _Besides, a little knowledge never hurt anyone_ , she thought. 

That curiosity was a large part of the reason she had to flee (first New Jersey, then Europe) so quickly.  In her youth, her combination of inquisitiveness and naivety led her to trust quickly and unwisely.  She had truly loved the crown prince of Bohemia, but was rewarded for it by being used and hurt time and time again by the very person she thought loved her.  Looking around at the barren and unexciting landscape she’d had to exile herself to, Irene made a promise to herself.  She wouldn’t be that naive again. 

She liked to believe, however, that she was adjusting admirably to the surroundings.  Not her usual taste, but for the time being, it would do. 

Irene paused in her walk, just out of sight of the stranger, and caught a glimpse of sweet Molly Hooper leaning out of her window, dark hair spilling over her shoulder.  She, like the rest of the town, was unabashedly watching the stranger unload his belongings from the stage coach.  Irene bit her lip and let her eyes wander over the naive singer from Sally Donovan’s bar.  She wondered, again, how much it would cost to have Molly work for her instead.  Irene smiled wistfully and let the thought pass.  Molly was a pipe dream; she was much too pure, innocent, and good for the likes of her.  Molly felt her stare and glanced down but before their eyes met, Irene settled her gaze on another person. 

In other words, nothing like Irene herself.  What had His Majesty called her? _Ah, yes, ‘a beautiful, intelligent, wanton strumpet,_ ’ he said as he gently tugged on her glossy brown curls.  All that before he had cast her out into the cold and threatened her if she ever came calling again.  Irene unexpectedly teared up at the memory, bringing her lace handkerchief to her eyes to blot the tears away.  Yes, that had been a harsh time for her, but Irene had suffered more than just a jilted heart and a wounded pride.  Irene, in the name of what she had thought was love, had been subjected to His Majesty’s baser sexual desires.  Irene Adler, through her own force of will,  knew how to survive with less than the clothes on her back. 

Irene squared her shoulders and smiled.  She would not let memories of the past haunt her now.  This was supposedly a land of opportunities, a land of second chances, and Irene Adler was going to take what she could.  She rounded the corner and proceeded to watch the spectacle unfold with the other townsfolk, skirting around the edges to get a better look.     

The stranger was tall, pale, and had a mop of unruly dark hair barely kept in place by his top hat.  He was berating the driver for the last leg of the ride, telling the driver how his wife had left him because of his drinking and how his mistress was about to leave him as well.  Irene smirked when the driver went pale to a beet red.  The stranger’s trembling, jerky movements and the flushed color of his skin told Irene that he wasn’t here for a social call.  She recognized withdrawal symptoms in those who over indulged in ‘chasing the dragon.’  She wondered if he was here by choice or if someone sent him away to be forcefully separated from his vices.  The spot of color on his face was not from the ranting and raving that he was currently occupied with but too much drug use.   

If Irene were a betting woman, which she wasn’t, Irene would be willing to bet that this stranger was a victim of his own excess.   

“Oh, you bloody well cannot put expensive equipment on the ground!  Pick it up and put it somewhere less....dusty!”  shouted the stranger throwing his hands up. 

 _Ah, that is a very posh accent_ , Irene thought smirking.   _Someone must surely want their favored son dried out and clear-headed._

“Fool!  What do I have to do to get decent help in this so-called town?”  The stranger ranted.  He pulled off his hat, threw it to the ground, and for a moment Irene thought he might actually stomp on it, making her want to laugh outright.   _The poor dear is going to be in for the shock of his life_.  Then she caught a movement out of her eye as Sheriff Lestrade stepped into view.   _Ah, the noble Sheriff.  Too bad I cannot convince him to darken my doorway.  I would imagine  him to be...spectacular sport._  

“Sheriff,” Irene said without a hint of coyness in her voice.  She genuinely liked the good sheriff and trusted him as far as someone with her history was able. Irene had no reason to trust him really - or anyone else.   _Not that he cultivated her interest or goodwill_ , she thought, crossly.  Sheriff Lestrade only offered her the coldest of greetings whenever their paths crossed. 

“Ma’am,” he said stiffly, his eyes quickly flicking over her attire before settling back on the scene before them. 

“Do you know who he is?”  Irene asked softly, noting where Lestrade’s eyes had landed. 

“Yes,” he replied and said nothing else, knowing she was curious. 

Irene sighed, and with only the slightest bit of taunting asked, “Are you going to keep it a secret or do I have to put you over my knee and spank it out of you?” 

The corner of Lestrade’s mouth briefly quirked up before he replied, “I’d like to see you try.” 

Irene was too stunned to say anything, and before she could, Lestrade gave her a brief farewell and walked away.  Well, that was certainly interesting.  She gave a rare, genuine smile as she made her way towards the stagecoach where the stranger was still raging to anyone who was listening...which was the entire town, naturally.  Irene cocked her head to the side and watched as the man continued with his ranting and raving.   _He certainly is acting like a two-year-old.  Oh, to know the stories about this man...I’m just sure that there are plenty of stories about this man._  

*** 

 _I do not get paid enough to deal with shit like this_ , Lestrade thought darkly.  He’d heard John’s rifle picking off Moriarty’s newest recruits while he prepared himself to meet Mycroft Holmes’ black sheep of a little brother.  Even though he owned Mycroft Holmes  his life for helping Lestrade relocate, he wasn’t sure the price of being Sherlock’s minder was worth it. 

“What am I going to owe you?” Lestrade said, looked around.  He almost wished he was back in London running for his life. 

“Oh, you will know when it is time to pay, Mr. Lestrade,” Holmes said smugly and dusted off an invisible piece of lint.  Greg may have been indebted to Holmes, but he certainly didn’t seek out the creepy bastard’s company.  Holmes gave the other man a chilly smile as if reading his thoughts.  “For the time being, I suggest you settle yourself here.  I’ll be in touch,” Holmes said and gave a wave before stepping into the coach that brought him back to the nearest railroad station. 

Greg stood watching the coach disappear into the horizon and wondered what exactly he was doing here out in Sioux country without a friend in sight and not a penny to his name.  The first year had been hard, but, being a tough fighter, he managed to stand on his own two feet.  He’d even managed to become the valued right hand of the town’s sheriff before the old dog had been murdered by James Moriarty and his gang.   

He had never  wanted to kill a man in cold blood as much as he wanted to right there and then.  It was only the wet, hacking cough of his friend that had stopped him, allowing Moriarty and his gang to ride away.   

 _“No, Greg.  It’s not worth the trouble of losing you and this town to the likes of him,” came Quentin's raspy plea.  He started coughing again as he beckoned Greg to his side.   “This stupid dusty town is going to need a sheriff, someone who won’t be afraid to stand up to Moriarty and his men.  I believe that man is you.  You’re a great man, Greg.  I think, in time, you’ll be a good man,” Quentin said and pressed his badge into Greg’s hand.  “You’re all they’ve got now.”_  

Greg wondered if becoming the minder to the younger Holmes was part of his plan to somehow rehabilitate and make him an upstanding citizen.  As it was, the next time he saw Mycroft Holmes, nothing was going to stop him from punching the arse as hard as he could. 

Possibly kick him as well.  Greg hadn’t decided.   

Five years ago, Greg did not know if he was going to survive the night.  Five years ago, Greg kept a constant vigil for his safety and never stayed in the same place twice.  Five years ago, Greg had been given a second chance to right his wrongs.  He hadn’t looked back since. 

Two months ago, Greg received a telegram from a certain Mycroft Holmes, rumored to be the unofficial head of the British government.  Greg sat down heavily in his chair just staring at the offending piece of paper before opening and reading the contents. 

 

> The time to repay.  STOP.  Brother arriving in 2 months  STOP.  See to health and safety. STOP. 
> 
> Mycroft Holmes 

“Christ,” was all Greg said before he put his head in his hands.  Greg didn’t have much time to think about the other Holmes brother, busy with thinking about Moriarty’s gang setting fire to a farmer’s homestead and methodically torturing every family member to death.  Moriarty and his ruthless men had no reason to commit such a heinous act.  Nothing was taken from the homestead before it was set on fire; the family kept to themselves; they owed no money.  So why did Moriarty kill them?   

It made no sense and Greg had a feeling that it wasn’t meant to make sense.  James Moriarty was just toying with him and the citizens of Westbrook. Something big was looming on the horizon but Greg just didn’t know what it was.  If his sources from the surrounding counties were correct,the railroad was set to start scooping up fledgling towns such as Westbrook and developing them into something the Northern Pacific Railroad could profit from. 

Later on while sitting in Sally Donovan’s bar, half listening to Molly Hooper sing, he pulled out the telegram again.   _Two months.  Two months is all I have before Holmes arrives.  What am I going to do?_  “Something troubling you, Sheriff?” Sally asked cleaning glasses as she eyed him.  “You’ve hardly touched your drink.” 

If Sherlock Holmes was just as bad as his brother, then Gregory Lestrade was going to be in a world of hurt.  “Nothing you need to concern yourself with, Miss Sally,” he replied gruffly. 

Sally sighed, set her cleaning cloth aside and looked Sheriff Greg Lestrade in the eye.  “Sheriff, I’ve been here in this town longer than you have.  I have seen its highs, lows and everything in between.  I’ve seen good men die by their beliefs.  I know most everything and everyone within a three hundred mile radius.  But the one person who needs to talk, won’t, because he believes that I am some delicate thing, not to be burdened by the weight of a man’s world.  Now, you listen to me, Sheriff Lestrade, you need someone to talk to or you’ll die placing your belief in some twisted form of justice.  Now, talk,” she said and leaned back, crossing her arms. 

Lestrade looked up in complete and utter disbelief, cracking a smile before giving a dry and unused laugh.  It was so unusual that the entire bar paused to look at the usually stern faced sheriff.  Several gave him wide-eyed stares, not used to seeing Sheriff Lestrade anything but grim.  Others shrugged off the humor and went back to their card games or their drinks.  If Sally Donovan was surpised, she hid it well. 

“You got me, Sally Donovan.  You got me well,” Lestrade said and straightened up on his bar stool.  “Have I ever told you about how I came to the Dakota Territories?”  Sally shook her head and leaned in as Lestrade told her his (abbreviated) story.  This was how Sally Donovan, owner of the only bar in town of Westbrook, became Sheriff Gregory Lestrade’s unofficial confidant. 

Unburdening his worries to Sally helped his mental state but it did nothing to prepare him for the hell that was known as Sherlock Holmes. 

*** 

Sally was among the curious townsfolk of Westbrook. _How could I not be?  I have a task to accomplish after all_ , she thought a little wryly.  Sally was a quick study of human nature and despite being dismissed time and time again, she wasn’t above trying to use this to her advantage.  She was very good at listening to most conversations that happened around the bar, filing away the information for Lestrade later on.  Her father fondly called her his little secret keeper.   

 _“You’d be well suited to be a priest,” he said, ruffling her hair._

_“Daddy!” Sally said, pouting.  Her father just laughed and shooed her away.  “Stop listening at the door!  It’s too obvious what you’re doing!”  It was only after he died when Sally remembered what he said._

_When she arrived to Westbrook to take over the bar he ran, Sally ran into a wall of resistance which most notably came from the undertaker, Mr. Anderson.  But like everything else in her life, she ignored the naysayers and did things her way, bearing the brunt of the town’s ire.  She heard what they called her, what they wanted to do to her, and what they planned on doing to the bar when they had driven her away, but she remained strong, took the necessary precautions and never backed down._  

_Sally was especially lucky in having the blessing of the town’s sheriff._

_“Don’t pay them no mind, Miss Donovan.  They’re just jealous that they couldn’t run you or your father out of town,” he said._

_Sally smiled brittlely.  “Thank you,” she replied._

_“Why do you stay here even though these fools make your life difficult?”_

_Sally shrugged, not saying anything.  “I suppose it’s to honor my father.  Even after he left, he still sent us money to help us get by.  He didn’t want to leave, mind you, but my mother made him.  She thought we were holding him back,” she said, staring into the distance.  “That wasn’t the truth, was it?”_  

 _The sheriff didn’t respond as they both looked into the inky night._  

Now, as Sally made her father’s legacy a thriving business, she had other worries to contend with.  There were still certain people among the townsfolk who greatly distrusted her and would go out of their way to not cross her path.  Distrustful of everyone and everything, Sally believed that even good men - like Lestrade - had their breaking points.  She listened patiently to his story and thought he was closer to his breaking point than he had been in London.  She sighed and looked around for any unfamiliar faces.   

Since Moriarty and his gang got their clutches into Westbrook, things hadn’t been the same.   People constantly looked over their shoulders, were wary of their neighbors and kept their mouths shut more often.  Sally knew that James Moriarty was a piece of work.  From what she had heard, he was brilliant - most likely had a genius level intelligent - cunning, ruthless and as insane as insane could be.   

She had heard what Moriarty and his gang did to the Johnson’s farmstead and of the horrors the family went through while they were being murdered one by one.  Sally did not believe a single piece of news until she went down to the scene of the crime and saw for herself; what she saw had chilled her to the core. 

The depravity of the gang knew no bounds and she finally understood what kept Lestrade up for most nights.  This was a new kind of criminal in her mind, definitely one that would not be bullied into submission. _He’s going to burn the entire town down just to keep from being bored,_ she thought as she walked away from the still smoldering homestead. 

Sally shook her head clearing it of memories  and leaned against her bar doors and watched the spectacle.  Like John Watson, Lestrade’s unofficial second-in-command and doctor of the town,she had a very keen eye.  Sally surveyed the crowd, picking out people left and right.   

She saw Watson in the distance, taking a similar stance in the shadow of the sheriff's door.  In the crowd she saw Irene Adler, the town’s madame, and if the rumors were to be believed, the face that could have launched a thousand ships if the Kaiser had anything to say about it.  Sally spotted Lestrade wading through the crowd and making his way to Sherlock Holmes - the stranger - brother of Mycroft Holmes, if Sally remembered correctly and was apparently Lestrade’s favor come calling.  She glanced about, shielding her eyes from the harsh sun, seeing Molly leaning out of her window; Anderson the undertaker - odious man, if the truth were known, hands on his lapels and trying to look more important than he actually was and Mrs. Hudson, the kindly landlady of the Baker Hotel, talking with Mrs. Turner, landlady of the Green Hotel on the opposite end of town.   

Sally smiled to herself and made her way to Mrs. Hudson’s side.  If anyone knew gossip and interesting bits of information it would be Verity Hudson.  “Hello, Mrs. Hudson,” Sally said, genuinely happy to see her. 

“Oh, hello, dear!”  Mrs. Hudson said and gave her a quick hug.  “I was just telling Mrs. Turner that this young man must certainly need a good drying out.” 

“What makes you say that, Mrs. Hudson?”  Sally asked curiously. 

“Ah, I can spot a someone who needs a good wringing out a mile away.  It’s the same on everyone, no matter what their vice was.  It was the same on my poor husband before that dreadful business of his,” Mrs. Hudson said cheerfully.  “I always said it was going to be the drink that did him in and by god, I was right.  I was never as happy as I was when I watched him hang.”  Sally stared at Mrs. Hudson.  Mrs. Hudson caught Sally’s expression and laughed merrily.  “Oh, Sally.  The look on your face.  No, my husband was a right bastard.  I’m glad he’s gone.  He can’t torment me anymore!”   

Sally nodded slowly and said, “If you say so, Mrs. Hudson.” 

“Oh, dear.  You have no idea.  Now, back to this stranger.  I wager he’ll have everyone seething by the end of the week.  Just look at how he’s berating that poor driver!  Oh, but he’s a good lad, he is.  I can tell,” Mrs. Hudson said more to herself than to either one of her companions.    “How long do you think it will take before he goes completely mad here?” she said, turning to Mrs. Turner. 

“Oh, I don’t know.  A few weeks at best, a few days at worst,” Mrs. Turner said, looking at her friend.  “What do you have in mind?” 

“Oh, just a friendly little bet that he lasts longer than you think,” she replied and gave her friend a wink.  Mrs. Turner and Mrs. Hudson strolled away talking about the terms of their wager.   

 _Huh, interesting_ , Sally thoughtfully to herself.   _Very, very interesting.  Lestrade told me very little about this Holmes person.  He said something about addiction.  It’s not alcohol or else he’d be sipping something every five seconds - though if drinking had any bearing on his personality, I’m sure that it would only increase his irritation...or maybe make him tolerable_ , she thought a little wryly. _I’m guessing here and say his addiction is drug related.  Fancy man like him would probably want a little...excitement in his life.  He’s probably too full of himself to admit that he might need help._  She gave the entire situation a very steely-eyed glare and nodded to herself.   _He’s trouble._    

“It seems that all hell is descending, isn’t it Miss Donovan?” a voice to her left said.  Sally whirled and came face to face with a tall blonde man dressed in black.   

She blinked before answering.  “It might be, sir.  It might be.” 

The man smiled slowly at her, saying nothing else, and disappeared back amongst the townsfolk.  Sally stood gaping at him, feeling cold all of a sudden.   _Yes, hell might be descending.  But I think it has nothing to do with that English stranger_ , she thought after realizing the man was Moriarty’s second in command.   _Oh, my god.  What is happening?_  

*** 

The blonde stranger sauntered right through the crowd and brushed up against the ranting Englishman, upsetting the bag of documents he was carrying.   

“My apologies, friend,” he drawled, not giving the other man time to speak before disappearing again into the crowd.  The Englishman just stared after him silently; something was dangerously familiar about the blonde-haired man.   

“Well?” asked James Moriarty, stepping out of the shadows and squinting into the hateful heat of the Dakotas.   

“It’s him alright,” the blonde, Sebastian Moran muttered, barely looking at Moriarty.   

“Excellent,” Moriarty said, grinning before pulling Moran into a quick and dirty kiss.  “It looks like I may get my revenge after all.” 

Moran said nothing, feeling Kitty’s eyes on them. 

*** 

Miss Stewart adjusted her position to keep the man in her sight.  Her beautiful face set in a grim expression as finally her mission could begin properly.   _Six months.  Six whole bloody months_ , she thought bitterly.   _This better be worth it, Mr. Holmes,_ she thought and sent her employer a mental rude gesture.   

She sat in her room in Mrs. Turner’s boarding house while she watched the proceedings.  Miss Stewart wasn’t confident that the stranger didn’t remember her but it wouldn’t do her any good if he recognized her on his first day here.  Mindful of her mission, she had insinuated herself with the people of Westbrook and earned Sally Donovan’s trust.  If all went well and she fervently hoped that it did, she would be there for three more months.   

 _This place is uncivilized, dirty, and the tea is no good_ , she thought angrily.  Miss Stewart took a deep breath, calming her nerves.    _It will do me no good to be agitated._  

*** 

Kitty Reilly wanted to scratch Moran’s eyes out.   _He’s mine_ , she thought wildly.  She pushed her auburn hair out of the way and glared at the two men engaged in a deep kiss.   _He promised me that he wouldn’t do that!_  Kitty wanted to scream, stomp her feet, and throw things.  Instead, she directed her wrath at the stranger that brought everyone out of their respective places. _Look at them.  Such a stupid, insipid bunch of people.  I knew I should’ve fought harder to go to San Francisco.  There’s nothing here but dust!_  

She focused her attention harder at the tall Englishman. _Bastard.  I bet he’s smug, intellectual type.  I certainly hope this isn’t all for naught_ , she thought savagely.   _It’s so hateful here.  Couldn’t we just kill him and be off by now?  But no, Moran convinced him that we should lay low here....in this backwater town.  I will kill him._  

Kitty Reilly, formerly of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, straightened her shoulders and went out amongst the townsfolk. 

*** 

Sherlock Holmes, formerly of London, England, was jolted awake from his fitful nap when the stagecoach accelerated.  He slammed against the back of the stagecoach, almost crushing his hat. _What the devil is going on_ , he thought irritably.   _I knew I shouldn’t have trusted that driver._   

“What is going on?  Why have you sped up?” Sherlock demanded, leaning his head out the window.  In the distance, he heard shots being fired.   _Ah, I see_ , Sherlock thought as he pulled his head in.   _T_ _hey mean to rob us.  Interesting._ He leaned back, brought his steepled hands to his chin, and closed his eyes. _Five, no six horsemen.  All wildly firing.  Fools.  They’ll run out of bullets before they catch us._   Another sound broke through his thoughts.   _That’s another gun...a shotgun perhaps?  Only one shooter, most likely a sharpshooter, meaning he was in a war.  Most likely American.  Which side did he fight for?_ The sudden silence was deafening. _Oh!  How interesting!  He’s shot them all, hasn’t he?_  

Sherlock confirmed his theory when he poked his head through the open window and watched as the horses scattered in different directions.   _He’s an excellent shot.  Maybe this won’t be too bad after all,_ Sherlock thought as he smiled. 

 _No, I was wrong_ , he thought several minutes later, stepping out of the stage coach and into the town of Westbrook.   _Oh, god.  Look at all these little people with their funny little brains.  I hate it already._  Sherlock scanned the crowd, trying to deduce the shooter, but couldn’t find anyone who would fit his description.  In the distance, he spotted two figures.  The one figure, male obviously, leaned against a doorway.  The sheriff, no doubt, Sherlock thought.  Beside him was a woman in clothing that suggested her occupation.   _Bordello madam in league with the sheriff?  Typical,_ he thought and gave them no mind.   

He continued to scan the crowd until his gaze landed on the driver.  “What kind of driving, do you consider that?” Sherlock said remembering the trip into town.  “That was abysmal.  What are you in league with whatever gang was chasing us?” he yelled.  Faintly, he heard the nervous laughter in the background as the townsfolk watched.  “You sir, are a terrible driver.  Is it because your wife has left you?  Smart woman.  The alcohol must have been costing the both of you a fortune!  Oh, and your mistress is also planning on leaving you as well, judging from the way you keep clutching your pocket.  She must’ve wrote you a letter?  Oh, what’s that?  You haven’t read the letter.  Well, then I’ve just saved you the trouble!”  Sherlock could feel his skin crawling. _Damn it all to hell.  Damn Mycroft!  Damn Victor!  Damn Moriarty!  Damn me!_  “Oh, you bloody well cannot put expensive equipment on the ground!  Pick it up and put it somewhere less...dusty!” Sherlock shouted as he threw his hands up. _My god.  How am I supposed to survive for the next three months?_

 


	2. In Case of Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting (of sorts) between people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing is mine. 
> 
> I am completely and utterly aware that this doesn't exactly feel like a western, but I have done my best.
> 
> I allude to violence, which happens off-page. Just be warned please.

For the next few days, no one in town had seen or heard from the stranger.  There were rumors that he was staying at Mrs. Verity Hudson’s boarding house but the usually talkative Mrs. Hudson was taciturn about her boarders.  

“Good morning, Mrs. Hudson,” John said on the fourth day.  He was making his rounds around Westbrook and decided to drop in on her. 

“Oh, good morning, Doctor Watson,” she said a little nervously.  Mrs. Hudson clutched her handkerchief.  

“What’s wrong?” John asked kindly, trying to instill his calm on the woman. 

“Doctor Watson, can you keep a secret?”  She said, leaning towards him and dropping her voice to a whisper. 

“Of course.  What’s ailing you?” he asked. 

“Our new boarder, Mr. Holmes.  I haven’t seen him in three days and all I hear from his room are moans.  It’s not decent, I tell you.  But what if he’s hurt?  He won’t answer my inquiries and he’s barred the door from the inside,” she said, wringing her hands.  

“Okay, Mrs. Hudson.  I’ll take care of it.  Don’t worry about it,” John said, switching gears and adjusting the guns at his hips. 

“Should I get the sheriff?”  Mrs. Hudson said, eyeing his movement.  

“No, not yet.  Let me see what I can find first, okay?” 

“Yes, dear.  He’s up on the third floor.”  

“Thank you,” John said and gave her a quick hug.  He climbed the steps to the third floor, listening hard for anything unusual.  As he neared the door, John heard the man moaning.  His forehead wrinkled in thought.  _Those are moans of someone in pain._ John knocked loudly on the door.  “Mr. Holmes?  Mr. Holmes, it’s Doctor Watson, John Watson.  I live here as well.  Can you let me in?” 

There was no answer from the other side of the door, just more moaning.  After knocking a few more times, John heard a loud thump and the abrupt silence from the other side of the door.  Doors opened to the right and left of him with the heads of his curious neighbors peeking out.  

“Keep it down, will ya!” yelled one surly man.  “My head is pounding enough with you and your fucking knocking!” 

John gave him a terse nod, barely looking at him.  The other resident look at John solemnly and shook his head slowly.  He didn’t want anything to do with him or the man on the other side of the door.  _Better brains than the other one,_ John thought.  He continued his knocking, imploring in a steady voice to let him.  

 _Enough is enough.  I’ll pay Mrs. Hudson for a new door,_ he thought as he placed a well-aimed kick at the knob, busting the lock and popping the door open.  From the doorway, John was hit by the smell of vomit.  _God damn it,_ John thought as he crossed the room to the other side.  The other man had fallen out of bed, his hair a wild mess from the vomit and sweat that seemed to pour out of him.  His bed clothes and sheets were damp, rumpled, and half off the bed.  

“My god, man.  What are you on?” John said as he propped the prone body onto his side.  John frowned as he looked at him.  His skin was clammy and pale; his eyes sunken and his cheekbones seemed more pronounced than they were three days ago.  

“Nnnngggg,” the other man said, trying to form words.  

John sighed, calling for Mrs. Hudson.  _This is not what I signed up for._  

“Yes, dear?  Oh, goodness!”  Mrs. Hudson said as she came in, her hand to her mouth. 

“I need water please and perhaps a tea as well,” John said ignoring her distress.  “You might want to add some dry toast.” 

“Yes, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said and turned quickly out of the room. 

“You are a mess,” John muttered as he took the man’s pulse rate and looked into his eyes.  

“Oh, god,” the other man finally said with a slight slur to his words.  “Why do I feel so wretched?” 

“I’m not entirely sure,” John said, his tone clipped.  “What exactly were you on,” he asked taking a stab in the dark. 

“I used the last of my cocaine.  What am I going to do without it?  I can’t think clearly.  Why can’t I think?  Why am I here?  Did I vomit?  I don’t remember.  I don’t remember much of anything.” 

 _Excellent,_ John thought.  _An addict, I don’t think I’m capable of dealing with this._ Just then Mrs. Hudson came in with a bowl of water and a hot cup of tea.  

“Is that...tea?”  Sherlock asked hopefully, turning his head to his landlady. 

“Yes, now can you sit a moment?  Sip slowly, please,” John sternly said as he helped Sherlock sit up.  

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, his voice scratchy.  

“You haven’t been seen in three days and Mrs. Hudson has heard nothing but moans and groans coming from your room,” John continued.  “You can’t spend all of your time in here.” 

“Why not,” Sherlock said, a little petulantly.  

“It’s not decent,” Mrs. Hudson piped up.  “Here, I’ve brought you a bit of broth as well,” she said.    “Look at you, all skin and bones,” she said.  “Both of you!  And you,” Mrs. Hudson said turning to John, “Where is it?  You might need it!  I can’t properly help you, not with this hip!” 

They politely ignored her while Sherlock reached for the broth while John sighed, aggrieved.  He sipped it slowly and turned his gaze to John and Mrs. Hudson before settling on the doctor.

“India or Afghanistan?” Sherlock finally said, a small smirk on his lips. 

John didn’t answer him right away, observing the continued steady thump of Sherlock’s pulse.  “What?” John finally said, flummoxed as the words sunk into his head. 

“Which was it? ” Sherlock said a little impatiently a faint blush on his cheeks appeared.  

John blinked again. 

“Where did you get your injury?  India or Afghanistan?”  Sherlock said speaking slowly as if to a small child.  “I detest repeating myself.” 

“India.  But how did you guess?”  John said quickly coming to his senses. 

“I don’t guess.  I observe,” Sherlock said haughtily and pursed his lips.  

John’s forehead wrinkled in confusion.  “How?” 

Sherlock sighed and once again turn his piercing gaze on John, clearly benefiting from the tea and broth.  Sherlock said nothing for a few minutes and just as John was about to speak up, Sherlock began speaking, deep voice clear.  “You’re military.  Even sitting, your posture is ramrod straight.  Your hair and clothing neat, if a bit worn.  Mrs. Hudson caused a small fuss asking about ‘it,’ suggesting that you have some sort of injury that sent you home, most likely to your leg though you don’t seem to walk with a limp.  Perhaps, the injury was psychosomatic?”  Sherlock paused here, narrowing his quicksilver eyes at John.  John felt caught under a magnifying glass.  He shifted under Sherlock’s gaze and wondered what exactly the other man was seeing. 

“While your accent is English, suggests that you were raised in Hampshire but lived in London until recently.  You wear your wedding rings  around your neck.  You live in a boarding house which says that you are either frugal with your money or do not have much of it.  With your immediate care of me, suggests that you are a man of medicine first and a soldier second,” Sherlock said dryly.  “Upon the entrance of our landlady, you pulled out a worn but well-cared for pocket watch.  However, you frowned every so slightly at the watch, not because you are concerned with the time but you discovered that it is either not working properly or you have discovered a scratch.  It is a family heirloom so either is quite plausible.  So, there you go.” 

John exhaled loudly.  “That’s...astounding.” 

“Is it?”  Sherlock asked, genuinely surprised and sat up a little straighter.  

“Yes.  Yes, it is and you know it,” John said, finally smiling a little. 

“That isn’t what people usually say,” Sherlock said mildly startled and faintly pleased. 

“What do they usually say?” John asked. 

“Piss off, actually,” Sherlock replied and looked out the window, while he slowly continued to sip his tea. 

“Well, since you seem to be regaining your footing, Mr. Holmes, I suggest getting out of bed so I can change and wash these sheets,” Mrs. Hudson said. 

Before Sherlock could say anything, John beat him to the punch.  “Come on now.  I’m sure you’ll want to deduce the townspeople,” he said and dragged him out of bed. 

With a dramatic sigh, Sherlock allowed himself to be bullied out of bed. 

 _This is going to be an interesting few days,_ John thought as he helped the other man clean himself up.  Over the next few weeks, Sherlock Holmes managed to anger half the town including Lestrade, John, and the ever-patient Mrs. Hudson.  The other half of the town was in awe of the man or highly amused by the irritable Englishman.  

John desperately wanted to punch Sherlock several times and very nearly did before Mrs. Hudson called him away to help her deal with another tenant.    After that incident, John decided to was best to leave off from Sherlock for awhile as he let his anger fade into the background.  

Sally offered the Sheriff and his unofficial second, a free whiskey and fought a laugh as they told her tales of the insufferable Englishman.  

“It could be worse, boys,” she said.  “It could always be worse.” 

*** 

James Moriarty wasn’t a man who could keep still.  He was a man in constant motion, much to the annoyance of Sebastian Moran and Kitty Reilly.  But he wasn’t around to keep them _happy_.  He was much too good to make people _happy.  Such dull, dull creatures,_ he thought.  _How boring it must be in their heads._ It was so tedious waiting around.  But he had _promised_ and so, James Moriarty sat around _waiting._  

Finally, finally, finally, he got word that a certain _someone_ was being shipped out of London and into the American frontier.  Someone that he had so been dying to get ahold of for oh so long.  Quickly, he jumped up and fired off a responding telegram to his informant back in London.  

 _Oh, now, **this** is going to be fun, _he thought and began to make plans. 

*** 

Moriarty watched the building and the figure on the second floor looking out the window.  He was itching to just gun him down right then and there, but then again, where would the _fun_ be?  What sort of person would just kill a person in cold blood?  Where was the flair, the panache, the sense of _fucking drama?_   

No, James Moriarty savored everything he did.  He didn’t kill outright just to kill.  He killed for the sheer pleasure of it; to watch his victims suffer, plead for their lives; to make husbands watch as wives were raped; to make mothers watch as they tortured their children; to make children watch as their parents went up in flames.  No, killing to kill was no fun.  Psychological and physical torture - that was what made James Moriarty, _James Moriarty._   Napoleon of Crime.  The Man No One Mentions but Everyone Knows.  The Shadow.  The King of the Wild West.  The King of America. 

Oh, yes, Moriarty _loved_ the sound of the King of America.  He was going to make it his.  

But first there was the problem of one Mr. Sherlock Holmes.  Moriarty was oh so devastated that Sherlock had gone off the deep end when his precious Victor Trevor was murdered.  He so wanted to play more with the qorld’s only consulting detective.  But Trevor had been a mere roadblock and he needed to go.  It wasn’t his most elegant of killings, but it had to be done.  _And besides,_ he reasoned, _there would be other murders to commit._  

Unfortunately, James Moriarty never counted on the British Government finding him and forcing him out of England.  He was sincerely glad that they could not _charge_ him with anything but it was still annoying and inconvenient that he had to set up his base of operations somewhere else. No, James Moriarty was more than annoyed, inconvenienced and cross - he was a raving lunatic for the next month and a half.  Moran barely made it out alive when Moriarty was in one of his moods, but for this mood to last nearly two months was almost intolerable.  

James Moriarty smiled menacingly as he pushed himself off against the wall.  He started walking around the building and towards the bar when he ran into Irene Adler. 

“My Dear, Ms. Adler,” Moriarty said sarcastically as he eyed her.  “How’s business going for you?” 

“You know damn well  how business is going for me,” Irene spat and went to walk past Moriarty when he grabbed her roughly by the arm and pulled her close to him. 

“Oh, I don’t think so, my Sweet and Scrumptious Ms. Adler,” Moriarty said, lips close to her’s.  “Such a beautiful thing like you in such a sordid, tawdry business.  One could lose one’s...ripeness running a business.  But you know, you would be better off if you were working for me,” he said, squeezing her arm viciously hard.  

“I told you before and I’m going to tell you again.  I  work for no one,” she hissed, eyes flashing with contempt and made to pull her arm away.  

Moriarty pulled her back again.  “Not yet, you don’t,” he whispered viciously before pulling her into a rough and heated kiss, his body flushed up against her’s.  She squirmed against him trying to her best to pull away.  They were in a little used side alley where no one looked.  One move from Moriarty and Irene would be dead.  “Now, get back to work, you fucking little whore,” he said and pushed Irene roughly away from him. 

Irene could only watch him saunter away from her, her breathing coming in gasps.  She shivered despite the high and harsh sun. 

*** 

Moriarty and Moran sauntered smugly through town, looking to all the world that they owned Westbrook.  Everyone in their path took the pain to cross to the other side of the street to avoid walking past the two men.  People were frightened and silent as all eyes were on them.  

 _God help us, if they ever succeed,_ Lestrade thought darkly as he watched them.  

Silently, Lestrade stood up, adjusted his guns and started walking after them. 

*** 

Molly clutched the letter in her hands, tightly, as if the pressure could lessen the words of rebuke from her parents.  She was lost in her thoughts, writing the angry response she planned on sending her parents as soon as she got back to her lodgings.  Molly, ever the dreamer, didn’t realize the danger she was walking into. 

“You know what I love about shadows, Miss Hooper?”  James Moriarty said stepping in front of the startled Molly. 

Molly gasped, taking a step back only to find  Moriarty’s second-in-command behind her who grabbed her arms. 

“I love being in the shadows, Miss Hooper,” Moriarty said not bothering to wait for an answer.  “Because so many _things_ can happen in the shadows,” he said, threatening. 

“Wh-what do you want?” Molly said, finally finding her voice, twisting desperately to get out of Moran’s hold. 

“Oh, I think you know what I want, Miss Hooper,” Moriarty said leaning close to her, letting his breath settle on her clammy skin before trying to kiss her. 

“No!”  Molly screamed bringing her knee up to hit Moriarty squarely in the groin.  Moriarty groaned, doubling over.  Moran threw Molly to the ground and went to help Moriarty.  

“Get off me, you fool,” Moriarty spit pushing Moran away.  “Miss Hooper, I do not take offenses lightly,” he said, eyes glinting with hatred. 

“Nor do I take scum like you, lightly,” Lestrade said from behind Molly.  

“Oh, look, Sebastian!  The good Sheriff Lestrade, here to save the day!  We should be running scared!” Moriarty said tauntingly. 

“You really should,” Lestrade said.  To Molly he said, “You should leave quickly.” 

Molly nodded, getting up to run.  

“We aren’t finished with you yet, my dear sweet delectable Miss Hooper!” Moriarty cried after her.  “Well, Sheriff, it’s two against one.  That’s not very good odds for you,” he said smiling widely. 

“You should know that I never get into a fight by myself, do I, Doctor Watson?” Lestrade said as his eyes flickered to the figure nearby. 

“Oh!  Who said anything about a fight?”  Moriarty said, in obvious fake politeness.  “We were just saying hello to an old friend!” 

“Old friend or not, I don’t tolerate rude, threatening behavior towards the citizens of this town,” Lestrade said.  

“Understood, Sheriff,” Moran said capturing the attention of the other men, his eyes dark and threatening. 

“Right you are, my good man!  Right you are!”  Moriarty said jovially and stood up to walk away, dragging Moran after him.  They gave Lestrade and John a jaunty wave and quickly left.  

“We should’ve shot them right here,” John growled looking at the Sheriff. 

“Then we’d be no better than them.  We’d be in the exact same boat.  We don’t want to be them,” Lestrade said. 

John nodded tersely, keeping his mouth shut. 

*** 

John left the confrontation with Moriarty and Moran more than a bit shaken.  He could read their intention with Molly Hooper and it shook him more than he let on.  Thoughts of Mary came unbidden to John’s mind as the guilt and shame came roaring back at him.  He slipped through the streets of Westbrook, trying hard to remain unseen.  John thought about getting his horse and riding for awhile but the thought of having to face the stable hands seemed to be too much for John in his current state.  

He paused for breath, not realizing that he was running and instantly regretted his decision.  John leaned against a building, hands shaking and heart pounding.  His shirt and vest were soaked through with sweat and as John gulped a lungful of air he became nauseous.  Memories of the night Mary died assaulted him, John was desperate to avoid the guilt and trauma but nothing seemed to help him.  It was only when he realized how close he was to Mary’s shrine that propelled John into action.  He ran blindly towards it and fell to his knees sobbing, his breathing erratic as the memories continued to wreak havoc on him. 

“I’m so sorry, Mary.  I’m so so sorry,” John mumbled over and over again as he sat up and dried the tears from his face.  “God damn it,” he muttered and punched his thigh in frustration. “When will I ever get passed this?  When will it be okay again?”  John sighed, running a hand through his sun bleached hair.  He looked out into the distance and saw someone walking towards him.  “Fuck,” he said, “now what?”  He reached for his shotgun and cocked it, ready for what might happen. 

“Doctor Watson,” came the crisp baritone voice, eyeing the shotgun. 

John frowned, “Mr. Holmes,” John said and disengagedthe shotgun. 

“Please, it’s Sherlock,” he said warily.  “Is that necessary?” 

“Yes, well it saved your life didn’t it,” John said, curtly. 

“Ah, that was you.  I actually thought it was Sheriff Lestrade,” he said, his eyes landing on John and the shrine beside him. 

“No one comes up here except me,” John said, voice still clipped and hard. 

“Why is that?” Sherlock said, ignoring the tone.  

John fixed Sherlock with a steely stare.  “You seemed so good at figuring me out back at Mrs. Hudson’s place, why don’t you tell me?”  John said challenging him before he knew what he was saying.  

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and John held his gaze until he could take no more and blushed hard from the microscopic gaze that Sherlock put him under.  John saw his eyes flicker about his body, most likely picking up bits and pieces of information that John did not know was there.  Sherlock then turned his gaze upon the small shrine that was there.  John took care not to put Mary’s name on the marker but somewhere deep in John’s soul, he knew that Sherlock had deduced who the shrine was for.  

“Are you sure that you want me to tell you?”  Sherlock said slowly.  “I am quite positive that if I do it will earn me a hard punch.” 

John took a deep breath, steadying his nerves before answering.  “I promise not to harm you, Mr. Holmes,” John said through gritted teeth.  The hand that was not wrapped around the gun was in a tight fist.  Sherlock looked pointedly at the hand and John forced himself to relax and to uncurl his fist.  Sherlock nodded. 

“This shrine is for your wife.  She died most likely within the past five years.  It was highly traumatic for you, most likely indicating that she died violently at the hands of another man.  No, more than one.  You feel incredible guilt for not preventing or saving your wife’s life.  Perhaps, you caught the perpetrators in the act,” Sherlock said gazing intently at John, slotting the pieces together.  “Oh.  _Oh._ ” 

“They deserved to die after what they did to Mary,” John spat out, his hands clenching and unclenching, his face angry and tight. 

Sherlock merely nodded suddenly feeling contrite.  “I did not mean to disturb your shrine here,” he said instead.  “I merely wanted to see if this was the place where you shot those men the other day.”  

John stiffly nodded, keeping his mouth shut.  He finally left his hands unclenched but the hard lines around his eyes remained.  

“You are a very good shot,” Sherlock said slowly, almost conversationally.  “You must have been very valuable to the military with your skills as a physician and a sharp shooter.” 

John only nodded again, slowly feeling the tension begin to leave his body.  At times, John wanted, no _needed_ to be angry at the world.  His anger fueled the life he lived.  Sometimes, John wanted to end it all, just for a chance to see his beloved wife again.  But he knew in doing so, John would greatly disappoint his lovely Mary.  

“You were a captain?” Sherlock said and went on before John said anything.  “How did you end up here?” 

The question startled John, snapping his attention to the taller man in front of him.  He narrowed his eyes under the high noon sun as he regarded the question and the man.  After a few moments of silence, John said, “This is where I ran out of money, where the adrenaline finally ran out, and where I just stopped caring.”  

“Caring?”  Sherlock said, eyebrows raised. 

“Yes, caring.  There’s surely a price on my head back in London.  I did murder three men,” John said, his voice devoid of all emotion.  He looked away from Sherlock, choosing instead to look over the broad, mostly flat lands of the Dakota territory.  John’s eyes swept over the honey colored grasslands, dotted with violet wildflowers that were interrupted by short grassy hills.  The hill they were standing on was one of the highest around Westbrook, making it the best place for John to see off into the distance.  Cutting through the grasslands were strips of red dusty roads, used by stagecoaches and those on horseback.  It was rumored that the Pacific Railroad was trying to get a leg into the competition, but John figured, he would let all talk of conquering the wild west to the likes of such men as Morgan, Vanderbilt and Gould.  He had no interest in helping to clean up a country torn apart by a civil war.  

John glanced back over at Sherlock who was still closely staring at him.  “What?” 

“Hmm?”  Sherlock answered, unfazed by John’s brusqueness.  He continued to assess the man in front of him. 

“Why are you staring at me,” John said, not bothering to lighten the tone.  _This man is mad.  I could’ve blown his fool head off but here he is.  Why?_  

“You are something else, John Watson,” Sherlock said.  John’s puzzled expression brought a light chuckle from the other man.  “Let me explain before you burst a blood vessel, Doctor Watson,” Sherlock said.  “May I sit down?” 

“You can sit down anywhere you’d like as long as you step away from Mary’s shrine,” John said.  He frowned at himself.  He didn’t mean to give Sherlock the name of his wife. 

“Of course,” Sherlock said a little abashed and settled on a rock away from John’s makeshift shrine.  “Forgive me.  I didn’t mean to intrude here.”  John merely nodded and indicated for Sherlock to continue speaking.  “To all outward appearances, you look very kind, polite and a bit boring, which is to say that you are not.  However, if people looked, no _observed,_ people would find that you are most likely one of the most dangerous men they had ever encountered.  You are a man of principle, Doctor Watson, of solid, unshakable ethics.  You are a doctor first, preferring to help heal people but your implied story about those who murdered your wife and the way you protect people _that you don’t even know_ , says a lot about you,” Sherlock said and paused for a second.  He then stood up, extending his hand to John.  “I never thanked you for saving my life yesterday.  Thank you,” he said, formally. 

John blinked, not knowing whether or not to believe him but shook Sherlock’s hand anyway.  John found Sherlock’s palm to be warmer than expected, with unexpected callouses on the man’s fingers but it was Sherlock’s grip that John found the most unexpected.  It was firm but not overwhelming, cautious but not overly so.  

John blinked and the handshake ended.  He looked up, once again at Sherlock’s face.  Sherlock’s eyes were a strange mix of blue, green, grey and gold and if John did not know any better, he would almost swear that the colors were changing right in front of him.  Sherlock smiled shyly at him, making him a charming boy instead of that intimidating man with a keen eye.  _This bloke is definitely something else._  

Sherlock looked away, breaking the moment, checks the faintest pink.  “Do you receive many stagecoaches here, Doctor Watson?” he asked, looking over the hills and valleys, scanning for anything.  

“Not really, no.  Why do you ask?” John said, looking into the distance as well.  _Well, that’s insane.  I didn’t see that before._  

“It looks like a railroad is being built,” he said.  

 _Damn,_ thought John, _railroads mean more people and more people mean a chance for the real world to catch up to me._  

“You really don’t know what happened after you left London, do you?” Sherlock said, genuinely puzzled.  

“How do you mean?”  John said, his brow wrinkling in confusion.  

“The won’t arrest you, if you choose to return to London,” Sherlock said. 

“I don’t believe that nonsense.  I killed three people in cold blood.  Scotland Yard isn’t just going to let a man off scot free!” John protested, throwing his hands up, tired of the conversation. 

“Scotland Yard manages to free many guilty men on a daily basis.  If you had been captured, it was most likely that a trial would have been come about,” Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes.  “John, after you killed those three men, the Whitechapel murders ceased,” Sherlock mused out loud.  “Most likely though the killer escaped, as you say, ‘scot-free.’” 

“Are you implying that London and Scotland Yard believe that _I_ killed this ‘Jack the Ripper,’ character?”   John said, his voice rising. 

“London certainly believes it and while Scotland Yard may be inept at best even they cannot or will not stem the tide that is in your favor,” Sherlock said, turning to face the doctor again.  “You are a war hero, popular among the citizens and patients you treated, recent widower, does quite well for himself and attractive.  Yes, favor is on your side.” 

“Favor does not feel like she’s on my side,” John muttered, unable to meet Sherlock’s gaze.  “Favor feels like a bitch to me, a vindictive little bitch,” John said and stopped before he got a full head of steam on his rant.  “I felt helpless, completely and utterly helpless,” he said, quietly.  “I thought...I thought that if I could find these...men and...kill them, that I would feel better.  But I felt worse.  I felt that I had tarnished Mary’s memory.  I couldn’t...I couldn’t stand myself.  What I was truly after was to bring her back.  But I couldn’t.  I couldn’t save her and I did nothing as she died.” 

Sherlock’s gaze sharpened.  “Were you there?  Did you see it happen?” 

“No, I was at a patient’s house helping to deliver a baby that was early,” John said, tears in his eyes. 

“Did you live in a section of London with an ill-repute?” 

“No,” John said slowly, not understanding. 

“Did you leave the doors unlocked?” 

“No.  What are you doing asking me these questions?”  John said, his voice rising again as his expression turning apoplectic.  Sherlock noticed that John’s hands were clenched again.  

“I mean, Doctor Watson, that as tragic as this was for you, there might have been nothing to _prevent_ it.  There are not many people who are so fortunate as to see the oncoming tragedy and do something about it.   Even those who do see their tragedies coming and try to stop it are...” Sherlock stopped mid-rant and turned away from the other man.  _Not your fault.  It wasn’t your fault.  It wasn’t your fault,_ Sherlock chanted in his head.  He closed his eyes, willing to stop the emotion from crowding his face. 

After some long tense moments, Sherlock realized that John hadn’t said anything.  He opened his eyes and turned to the other man.  John stood there with an unreadable expression on his face. 

“I’m sorry,” John said.  “I don’t know what happened to you or why you are here and I’m not asking.  I’m just saying that if and when you are able, I will listen without judgement.  I think we’re both a little too much alike and perhaps that scares the hell out of us.  Hell, it _should_ scare us.”  Shock filled Sherlock’s face and John bitterly chuckled.  “Didn’t expect that did you?  Did your brother assault you with too many questions?  He probably did.  When my sister finally found me, she did the same.  I love her, even if sometimes I want to throttle her.  I just wanted to be alone.  Be someplace where no one knew me or what I did,” John said, gazing sadly at Mary’s shrine.  “But sometimes your sins just come back to haunt you, no matter what you do.” 

“Yes, I suppose they do,” was all Sherlock said, his mind whirling.  They spent the rest of the afternoon together, silently contemplating the world around them. 

 *******  

Later on that evening, Sherlock and John found themselves at Sally Donovan’s bar, still brooding and contemplative.  They sat at the bar as Sally came up to them to take their orders. 

“Hello, Ms. Donovan,” John said politely. 

Sally sighed, “I told you to call me Sally, John.  I thought I had earned that right a while ago,” she said, her mouth twisting in a grimace. 

“I’m sorry, Sally.  You’re right,” John said and sighed.  “What’s going on here today?” 

“John, it’s Saturday night.  What do you think is going to go on tonight?” Sally said, sarcastically. 

John laughed, feeling his mood brighten a little.  “Well, it’s a good thing that I’m here tonight then.” 

“That you are,” Sally said and then began to eye Sherlock speculatively.  “Well, stranger?  What’re you having tonight?” 

“I was led to believe that this part of the country was a dry state,” Sherlock said, his accent turning more and more plummy with each word. 

“Yeah?  That right?  What the government doesn’t know won’t hurt them and until they come up here to tell me face to face, then I’m not giving up anything,” Sally said challenging him, giving him a hard look. 

Sherlock smirked, a corner of his mouth quirking.  “Whiskey, neat, for right now,” Sherlock finally said.  Neither backed down from the unsaid challenge in their eyes.  A strange crackling energy filled the air as Sherlock silently deduced Sally Donovan.  Sally, for her part, had crossed her arms and let him look, her anger rolling off her in waves. 

“John, Mr. Holmes, Sally,” Lestrade said coming up on Sherlock’s unoccupied side.  He paused, taking in the scene before slowly saying, “Is everything okay, here Sally?” 

Sherlock looked away first, glancing into the mirror that lined the bar behind Sally.  He could see that the bar was filling up quickly.  A stage was set in the back part of the room, the threadbare red curtains were pulled shut.  _She inherited this bar from someone close to her.  No, not inherited.  Saddled with it,_ Sherlock thought.  _She’s a tough woman.  Is it this town, this bar that made her prickly or was there something in her past that hurt her?  Does it matter?  None of this matters._  

“Yeah, everything’s fine here, Sheriff,” Sally said, emphasizing the word sheriff.  “What can I get for you?” 

“I’ll have a whiskey on the rocks,” Lestrade said, looking at Sally and Sherlock.  He met John’s gaze in the mirror.  Lestrade raised an eyebrow while John just shook his head. 

“If you two are finished,” Sherlock said cutting through the silent conversation, “I’d like to ask Sheriff Lestrade if he has sent any telegrams to my annoying brother.” 

Lestrade and John had the grace to look a little abashed before Lestrade answered.  “No, I was planning on sending your brother a telegram.  However, you know your brother.  I ‘m sure he planted a spy here already to report back to him.” 

“Would he do that?” John asked surprised. 

“You have no idea.  You’ve never met my brother,” Sherlock said drily.  

“You have _that_ right,” Lestrade said, echoing Sherlock. 

“That bad, huh?” John said taking the beer that Sally had placed in front of him.  “Thanks, Sally.” 

“Worse,” Sherlock said and toasted Lestrade and John.  “To the British Government.  May the sun eventually set on her empire,” he said sarcastically.  

“Your brother only told me -very briefly, I might add - that you were coming here in two months time,” Lestrade said, taking a generous swig of his whiskey, wincing as the liquid hit his throat. 

Sherlock did not say anything, letting his eyes roam the mirrored scene of Sally’s bar.  The doors to the bar swung open, letting in Irene Adler.  John and Sheriff Lestrade’s eyebrows met their hairlines as they took in her attire.  Irene wore a deep scarlet, off the shoulder gown made of silk - most likely - were edged in bright delicate lace and had a matching petticoat.  She was displaying more pale, almost translucent skin than what was decent.  However, no one dared to call her on it.  Her long dark hair was piled high on her head, showing off her long pale neck.  She smiled demurely, knowing that everyone was watching her entrance.  Her eyes, lined precisely in black, had smudges of blue on the eyebrow.  She licked her lips, making her deep dark blood red lips shine.  _Interesting,_ Sherlock thought dryly.  _Does she seriously mean to attract and keep my attention by mere gloss and shine?_  

He took a sip of his drink and continued to watch her discreetly.  He knew, that this woman was used to brighter, better things and a higher class of people.  _She could have been a queen._ Sherlock watched as Irene slipped easily into the crowd.  His eyes narrowed as he tried to place where he might have encountered her.  _Oh. **Oh** ,_ Sherlock thought.  _I have seen her before._ Sherlock continued on his deduction of the woman walking towards them.  _So, this is the Woman, Mycroft was speaking about.  How intriguing.  She could have easily toppled the Bohemian monarchy if she chose to but she did not,_ Sherlock tapped into his memory filtering through the newspaper clippings that he read.  _She truly loved him._ Sherlock  observed that being in this town deeply hurt her sense of pride.  _Instead, she is here working as a Madam of a brothel._  

“Miss Adler,” Sherlock said swiftly as he turned to face her, rising to his feet and bowing slightly to her.  

Surprise was quickly buried by pleasantry.  “How do you do, Mr. Holmes?  I trust everything has been to your liking?” she said, practically purring.  Sherlock had to admire her for her ability.  Not everyone could bury their real feelings and emotions as quickly.   

John and Lestrade discreetly traded glances with each other.  Everyone in town knew of Irene’s reputation, if not the specifics of her self-imposed exile to Westbrook.  John sat back and tried not to observe the unfolding scene behind him in the mirror.  _It can’t hurt to look,_ John thought as he eyed Irene. 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows before smirking and saying, “I see my reputation has preceded me.”  

Irene laughed a high musical laugh.  John was quite sure that he had never heard her laugh this way before.  He turned an eye towards the couple chatting, observing their body language.  Irene was angled towards Sherlock in a way that she blocked anyone else from interrupting them.  She gave him numerous flirtatious touches on his arm while they spoke but most telling were her eyes. Quirking an eyebrow, John turned away from Sherlock and Irene and focused his attention on Molly Hooper who had just stepped out onto the stage.  

John saw a flicker of movement to his right as Sherlock, Irene and Lestrade settled themselves at a table.  Sherlock gestured to the empty seat to his left, silently telling him to sit down.  John nodded and brought his drink to the table to watch the singer on the stage.  Sally’s bar was usually a very noisy, rambunctious place to be on any night of the week.  But on the nights where Molly Hooper sang where the night that nothing else mattered.  

Irene quickly stole a glance at Molly.  The look was unreadable to most except Sherlock.  _Interesting,_ he thought.  His eyes flickered to the singer on stage.  _Yes, very interesting, indeed._ Sherlock narrowed his eyes and concentrated on Irene.  _She’s in love with her,_ Sherlock suddenly thought.  Irene felt his eyes on her and before settling her gaze on Sherlock, he had quickly switched back to Molly, schooling his expression.  

Sherlock was watching the other three at the table.  They all sat in complete awe of the singer in front of them.  _No, change that, everyone is in awe of Miss Hooper._ He turned his gaze upon Molly.  _Yes, she could be very good.  But she hasn’t been given the opportunity and has the incredible bad luck of living here.  No one will notice her here._ Sherlock could hear Mycroft’s voice in his head:  _Why would she be important to you?  She’s not,_ Sherlock answered back, stiffly.  _So, why concern yourself with her?_ Sherlock had no answer for the question.  A slight movement brought his attention from Molly to Irene Adler, famed madam known within a three hundred mile radius.  

 _She looks nice enough, if not a little bland for my tastes.  Miss Hooper likely wears her emotions on her sleeves.  She is, no doubt, the town sweetheart falling easily and deeply for any man who shows her any common decency, which means that she is currently besotted with Sheriff Lestrade and the good Doctor Watson._  

He turned his attention to John and took his time watching him out of the corner of his eye.  Sherlock had the strangest feeling that he, despite dissecting John, didn’t know a damn thing about the man.  The corner of his mouth briefly lifted up in amusement, his mind swirling with the puzzle being presented to him.  John turned, feeling Sherlock’s gaze boring into his head.  He simply raised an eyebrow in a silent question.  Sherlock felt his face flush and silently thanked the relative darkness of the room.  

Sherlock Holmes was intrigued by John Watson and he wasn’t exactly sure why.  

Sherlock felt a hand on his knee under the table.  He didn’t need to look to know that it was Irene Adler’s hand under the table, lightly making circles on his knee.  He shivered slightly, not entirely sure on what he should do or how to stop the contact.  Irene squeezed lightly one more time before removing her hand from his knee. 

“If you will excuse me, I have other places to attend tonight,” Irene said, standing up smiling at each of the men at her table.  She walked towards the doors, aware that every eye seemed to be on her.  Irene, paused for half a second, looking over her shoulder and disappearing into the night.  Sherlock’s eyes narrowed slightly as he watched her walk away.  _Interesting what sentiment makes a person do.  She will never gain Molly’s attention - or affection - in this capacity.  It is unlikely that she has even spoken to Molly._

“She has a history of doing that, you know,” Lestrade said quietly, not looking at Sherlock.  He kept his eyes focused on the stage.   

“Miss Adler?” Sherlock asked, already knowing the answer.  He took another sip of his whiskey, enjoying the slight burn in his chest.  

“Yes,” he replied. 

“I am not surprised,” Sherlock said. 

“I bet,” John said, quirking a quick smile.  Both men turned to look at John but John had already redirected his attention to the door.  His smile quickly turned into a frown when he realized who had entered. 

“Moriarty,” Lestrade swore under his breath and stood up. 

“Fuck,” John swore and stood up himself. 

At the mention of Moriarty, Sherlock whipped his head around to look at the figure in the room.  Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and he snarled quietly.  John took a sideways glance at the Englishman but decided that now was not the time to be asking questions. 

Meanwhile, the bar had turned deathly quiet.  Molly shrunk back into herself and was edging closer and closer to the back of the stage while Sally eyed the four men standing in her doorway.  Everyone else looked back and forth between Moriarty and his men to Lestrade, John and Sherlock.  Most tried to tuck themselves into the darkness and shadows of the bar while a few slunk out of the bar all together, not wanting to get caught up in the impending francas.  Some had stood up to help with the fight.  

“Oh, now!  Don’t let the party stop because of little ole me!”  Moriarty cried out at the top of his lungs.  

Molly screamed as one of the gang members jumped up on stage and went to make a grab for her.  He laughed and in this moment, Molly stomped down on his foot and brought her knee up to his face as he went doubling over in pain.  Groaning, he crashed to the stage as Molly scrambled off to better protect herself. 

“Joe!  Joe!  Joe!  What have I told you about startling the lovely Miss Molly?”  Moriarty said strolling up  the apron of the stage.  “Now, apologize to her,” he said dangerously. 

“I’m sorry, Miss Molly,” Joe said groaning from the floor. 

“That’s better!” Moriarty said, spinning around to the front of the room.  “Now, Molly, give us a kiss!” 

“No,” Molly said, back straight, voice trembling.  John had to give the singer credit for keeping a relatively level head while being threatened by this maniac.  _We have got to get everyone out of this bar before all hell breaks loose._  

“Leave,” a loud, clear voice said from behind the bar.  All heads swiveled to peer at the person.  Sally Donovan stood on the bar counter, shotgun primed and ready.  Her eyes burned with hatred and challenged every single person in the room to dare and make a move. 

“Ah, Sally, Sally, Sally,” Moriarty said.  “We’re just trying to be nice and friendly!  Who doesn’t want to be nice and friendly, huh boys?”  He said, gesturing to his gang. 

“Scaring my customers isn’t being friendly, Moriarty,” Sally said, her voice hard and level. 

“Customers!  You are so, right, Sally, my dear!”  Moriarty said, voice cheerily false with good humor.  “Now, you heard the little lady, if we want our entertainment then we must _pay for it_ ,” he said, his voice a sharp-edged knife. 

Lestrade glanced over at Sally while Sally gave a barely noticeable nod of her head.  Lestrade nudged John who didn’t need to be told twice to be on his toes.  Moriarty and his company passed by their table, Sherlock meeting Moriarty's eyes.   “Why!  While I live and breathe!  If it isn’t the great Consulting Detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!  I thought I would never see _you_ again!”  Moriarty said, clapping his hands in sarcastic delight. 

“Mr. Moriarty,” Sherlock said, his voice frosty. 

John and Lestrade exchanged glances.  _Now, this is interesting,_ John thought as he watched Sherlock’s hands tremble.  

“I suppose you must have set an _awful_ set back when that lovely little friend of your’s - what was his name? Oh!  Victor Trevor! - was beaten to death _right in front of your eyes!_   But here you are!  Standing tall, standing straight, _standing proud._ ”  Moriarty said, his voice dripping with deadly venom.  

Sherlock’s hands were fisted at his sides while white hot anger radiated off the Englishman. 

“What’s that, Mr. Holmes?  Cat got your tongue?  Perhaps, you feel unable to answer, what with your hands _tied behind your back?_ ”  Moriarty said clearly taunting Sherlock.  Sherlock went white with rage, but still kept his hands fisted at his sides.  Greg and John exchanged confused looks.  _Surely,_ John thought, _there was some veiled threat in that last remark._   Moriarty then turned to Greg Lestrade.  “Oh!  The good sheriff!  Not so good while you were in London were you, Gregory?  All those debts you piled up!  Did you know, dear Gregory, that they had to see your parents house after you fled the country?  Oh, my!  Look at the expression on your face!  Tut, tut, tut.  Not such the good son, now where we?”  

John felt the tension begin to thicken, threatening to suffocate anyone in the room.  The door to the bar swung open again as Irene Adler was pushed through the door, her dress ripped to shreds, hair undone, face smeared with make-up and tears.  John’s gut twisted painfully in his stomach as he watched horrified as two men pushed passed her, zipping up their pants and laughing harshly.  Irene, for her part, threw her shoulders back, grabbing and twisting the man around and gave him a swift right hook to the stomach.  She pulled her hand back, placing the thin shiv back into her hair where it glittered red and wet from the man’s blood. 

The man went down, choking in his own blood as it bubbled up from his mouth.  He lay gasping at her feet as she daintily stepped over his dying body, straightening her clothes and expression cold.  “I told you, Mr. Moriarty, that I would kill myself or one of your men touched me again and since I don’t feel like _dying_ tonight, it was going to be one of _your_ men who would be dying.”  

Irene nodded curtly at Lestrade, making her way to the bar and pouring herself a generous amount of whiskey.  

Molly’s blood ran cold as she watched the scene, deathly afraid of what could happen to her.  She bit her lip, hands trembling as Irene sashayed her way to the shaking singer.  

“Miss Hooper,” Irene said not unkindly. 

Molly looked at Irene’s ruined face, taking strength from her.  “Miss Adler,” she whispered.   

“I won’t let anything harm you,” Irene said fiercely. 

“I know,” Molly said with quiet conviction.  Molly turned her attention back to the scene at hand, missing what Moriarty had said to John. John Watson was now a man possessed, his face a ruddy red as he began to hurl angry insults at Moriarty.  Molly turned to ask Irene what Moriarty said to the good doctor when Irene pulled Molly down to the ground.  Above them, a bullet whizzed past their heads.  Molly stifled her scream.  

“Here,” Irene said, pulling another thin shiv from her hair.  “If anyone comes near you, don’t hesitate to pull this out,” she said pulling Molly close and whispering into her ear.  Despite everything happening around them, Molly could not help but shiver at Irene’s breath ghosting over her ear.  “No, don’t hold it like that,” Irene said, adjusting Molly’s grip on the shiv, “hold it like this.  You’ll have more force and better control.” 

“Thank you,” Molly said.  “But what about you?  You don’t have anything to defend yourself with!” 

“A lady has tricks up her sleeves,” she said, looking down and adjusting her skirts.  “Or rather up my skirt and strapped to my thigh.  Luckily - or unluckily - they didn’t notice,” Irene said, pain flickering across her face. 

Another bullet sailed over their heads, embedding itself in the stage.  _Sally is going to kill someone,_ Molly thought.  _I hope it’s James Moriarty._   

Moriarty’s off-kilter, lilting voice came to her ears. 

“Oh, boys!  We are meant to be _nice and civilized,_ not to shoot everything in Miss Donovan’s bar!” he said, practically spitting Sally’s name out.  “We wouldn’t want people to think that we were _unfriendly._ Then, where would be, gentlemen?  Oh, yes, that’s right.  We’d have to _fight_ our way in,” Moriarty said smiling evilly and cocked his gun, taking aim at Sherlock Holmes. 

Before he could pull the trigger, however, a knife embedded itself in his hand, causing him to drop the gun. 

“Fuck!” Moriarty cried out, clutching his hand.  With a hissing breath, he pulled out the shiv and threw it on the floor.  He turned in the direction of where the knife came from and met Molly Hooper’s wide and frightened brown eyes.  “Oh, Miss Hooper!”  Moriarty said silkily.  “What spunk!  I do so love for my playthings to have a bit of fire and steel in them, don’t I Mr. Moran?” 

“Oh, indeed you do, Sir, indeed you do,” Moran said licking his lips and taking a step forward.  An audible click of a handgun could be heard. 

“Leave her alone,” Irene said, pointing the gun at Moran’s head.  Moran threw his hands up, taking several steps back.  “Pick up the shiv, Molly, and get behind me,” she said, instructing the young singer.  

“Well, now, isn’t this all cosy-wosy?” Moriarty said voice twittering, waving his bleeding hand around.  “Looks like we’ll be leaving now,” Moriarty said a dangerous gleam in his eyes.  “Boys?”  Moriarty and his men began to vacate Sally’s bar but before Moriarty left, he turned one more time and addressed Sherlock.  “You know, Mr. Holmes, he begged for his life, said he would trade anything, _anything_ to let him live.  Did you know that, Mr. Holmes?  I bet you didn’t,” Moriarty said and in a flash he was gone.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are nice.
> 
> I am still very much unhappy and unsatisfied with this chapter. But you'll have that, I suppose.
> 
> And no, I still don't have a publication schedule worked out. 
> 
> Sorry about that.
> 
> This chapter's title is taken from the Bastion soundtrack.


	3. You Can Run On For a Long Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A storm is brewing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Rough sex ahead and could be possibly triggering.  
> 2\. Moriarty's language is saltier than the Atlantic Ocean. It too could also cause triggering.

 

> July 16, 1889
> 
> Brother Mine, 
> 
> By now you have probably settled in Westbrook, met Sheriff Gregory Lestrade and managed to anger several people.  If not, then it has been a bad day for you.  Mother asks about you, in her own way.  Truly you must believe me when I say that we care about you.  I cannot reiterate this enough.  Hate me now, but in time when you are on the other side, you will thank me. 
> 
> You must know by now that I am only thinking of your well-being.  Please, I know we do not have the best of relationships and I will not assign any blame, but I do try.  You are my only brother and I cannot stand idly by while you destroy yourself on this devil drug.  No matter what you think of me, I truly do care about you, Sherlock. 
> 
> MH 

Sherlock lit a match and set the letter on fire, his face impassive as he tossed it into the cold grate. 

*** 

> August 10, 1889 
> 
> John, 
> 
> Please come home. We miss you.   Whatever you have done we can make it better.  I promise you.  Please don’t stay away forever. 
> 
> Your ever loving sister, 
> 
> Harriet 

John placed the letter amongst the other letters he received from Harriet and Stamford without a second glance.               

*** 

> August 20,1889 
> 
> Dear Mr. Nicholas, 
> 
> I was told by a reliable source that you are a man of great discretion.  
> 
> Therefore, expect me to arrive in the town of Westbrook in about two to three months time.  It is a matter of great urgency. 
> 
> James Moriarty 

Mr. Nicholas smiled politely before handing off the letter to his associate. 

*** 

> January 20, 1888 
> 
> My Dearest Darling Sherlock, 
> 
> Whatever shall I do without you? You are my very reason for living, my dark-haired Adonis. Without you, I am nothing. Nothing at all! You must believe me when I say that I am not hiding anything. You would know best! I could never hide anything from you.I wouldn’t even begin to know how! 
> 
> It is just the stress of knowing that my father isn’t well and will most likely pass on soon and this damn situation we are in. That isn’t saying that I regret being in a relationship with you, my Dearest Love, but that I can’t tell anyone about it, about how grand you make me feel. You make my toes curl every time we kiss. My skin feels electrified with every touch you give me. My heart soars knowing that you are waiting for me. 
> 
> How could anyone else possibly have this same intense passion? It galls me so that other people think they know what love is! What we have could never compare to what they call “love.” 
> 
> I am forever at my wits end when dealing with people and if I am at my wit’s end you must be three times as much. I honestly do not know how I could have been so lucky as to have met you, my Stormy-eyed love. Damn my silly stupid dog for biting you (I shall place extra kisses on the bite mark!), but his bite led me to you and for that I am eternally grateful. 
> 
> You have my heart completely, utterly, and truly. 
> 
> Your’s ever, 
> 
> Victor 

Sherlock stared at the letter before tossing it into the fire after Mycroft’s missive. 

***

_London_  

Mycroft Holmes sat in his study thinking.  Outside, the usual grey London skies gave way to a nauseatingly bright and sunny day.  The blue of the sky and the sun made his eyes hurt.  He got up and abruptly closed the blinds against the cheerfulness.  His agent was, no doubt, in Chicago by now, awaiting his orders. Mycroft sat down heavily in the dark leather chair, his forehead wrinkled.  He tapped his fountain pen to his lips thinking of what he wanted to say, his agent knew exactly how to interpret his instructions. 

Finally, he put pen to paper, a small smile upon his thin lips. 

*** 

> Continue as planned. STOP. Do not engage. STOP. Observe. STOP Report back. END - MH 

***

_Chicago_  

Miss Stewart quickly read the telegram, careful to not leave any scrap behind as she boarded the train bound west. She adjusted the hat and veil over her face, settling on a maudlin, weepy expression before settling in. No one would bother a woman in mourning and if they did, well who would blame her if the offending party were to suddenly disappear? 

If the woman in head to black smiled discreetly, no one noticed.  If they did, they didn’t comment. 

*** 

Verity Hudson knocked on Sherlock’s door and without waiting for an answer entered. She found the Englishman still dressed, so proper and dignified sitting by the cold empty grate. Verity took a moment to study her newest tenant before speaking.  Sherlock had a vacant expression on his face, his mind miles away from his physical location.  His lips were drawn into a tight line and his hands were clutching the arm rests of the faded blue wingback chair he was sitting in.  Verity shook her head and kept her thoughts to herself.  This wasn’t the time for a gentle scolding.  Her eyes scanned the room before seeing the ashes in the fireplace.  

“Sherlock,” she said gently. “A telegram has arrived for you.” She placed the telegram next to the table, placed a motherly hand on his arm and left the room. 

Sherlock blinked several times, barely registering the woman was in his room, before picking up the flimsy telegram. 

> Remain sober for three months. STOP Come home when clean. END - MH 

Sherlock clenched his fist with the telegram crumpling it instantly. 

*** 

Lestrade opened his telegram, feeling dread pool in his stomach as his pulse picked up speed. He knew who it was from before opening the damned thing.  He closed his eyes, gathered his thoughts, and then opened the damn thing. 

> Look after him. STOP Compensation will come later. END - MH 

Lestrade looked up at the cloudless blue sky and cursed the day he had ever met Mycroft Holmes. 

*** 

“Oh, my Kitty, Kitty, Kitty,” James Moriarty purred at her as he licked the sweat off the side of Kitty Reilly’s pale neck. He nibbled on her collarbone, enjoying the sound she made before giving her a firm bite. 

“Ouch!” Kitty yelped before pushing him off her as he laughed. They were laying naked next to each other in James’ room. The sheets were pushed off the bed and their clothes were flung around the room.  It was relatively quiet in the house Moriarty owned.  Sunlight peeked behind the drawn curtains and the sounds from the streets outside filtered in.  Kitty laid on her back and listened carefully, she could hear Sebastian Moran several rooms down the hall, his groans increasing as the bedsprings increased their protests. _Oh my, he’s got stamina. How many women does he have in there? Oh, those aren’t just women._  

Kitty made a move to leave the bed when  a strong arm wrapped around her middle and pulled her flush.  “Oh, no you don’t,” James murmured silkily, his mouth close to her ear.  “You got such a beautiful little mouth. I love how it moves and stretches around my cock as I fuck your throat. Did you like that my little slut? Did you like it as I fucked your throat? I most certainly did. It was so delicious watching you gag around my cock and even better as I shot my load down your throat. Oh, yes. I will be doing that again,” he said as his hands wandered over her pebbled nipples.  She shivered and moaned as he pinched the peaks harder.  “I love it when you moan, screaming my name and begging me to fuck you harder.  You’re such a little slut aren’t you?” 

Kitty remained silent, frowning a little  at his words. She knew how much James loved to hear himself speak, especially when he was fucking. Kitty heard him enough when he was fucking her and more so when he and Sebastian were together. He was a very talkative and and even rougher lover. 

She shifted against him, feeling his cock stiffen against her ass. She sighed silently. _There was always a price to pay for information,_ she thought sourly as James continued to talk. _I bet no one ever told other newspaper writers what they might have to do to get a huge scoop._ She forced herself to relax as James began fondling her breasts slowly before pinching  the tips again. Kitty moaned again as his hands wandered down to her wet pussy.  His nimble fingers working deftly on her clit, alternating between slowly massage it and a faster motion.  Kitty arched herself back into James’ body as he worked her over.  James’ prick went even harder as he responded to Kitty’s desire. Despite herself, the jolt of arousal went straight down as a moan escaped her mouth.  She was so very close to begging again and she hated herself the more for it. 

“Oh, that’s better. Much, much better, my Kitty Cat. I bet I could make you come just like this, couldn’t I?” James whispered hotly into her ear. He took her lobe into his mouth sucking hard as he pinched her nipple again earning him another shuddering moan. “Or would you prefer I use my lips and tongue on you? My mouth pressed up against your hot, wet center.  Lapping at the very core of you? You’d like that wouldn’t you? I could fuck you with just my tongue.  Have you begging me to fuck you hard and rough. ” He thrust his hips against her, sliding his cock between her thighs. His other hand snaked further down on her shaking, sweating body before shoving in two fingers into her dripping pussy. She screamed as his fingers intruded into her and before she knew it, Kitty was bucking against his fingers, wanting more of him within her.  

“Oh, Kitty, so eager for me, are you? You pretend to be better than the rest of us but in the end you’re just like us. Rough, ready, and eager for something new,” he said as he slowly began to fuck her with his fingers, twisting the hard nub of her breast. James pushed his hardening cock against her again, leaking pre-come and leaving a wet trail. He shoved his fingers into her again bringing another gasping moan out of Kitty Reilly. Kitty focused on the sensation as James fucked her with his fingers. She loved the feel of him inside her, his rough fingers becoming wet from her juices. “I know how much you love this, how much you want me to do this. I see you staring at me sometimes, especially when I’m looking at Sebastian. Oh, I know you don’t like him, but I don’t fucking care. He’s a good fuck and so are you. God, you’re so wet. I could do this to you all night,” he said, his hips against her’s again.  “I could leave you wailing, breathless, and screaming my name over and over again.  It would make Sebastian, oh so jealous of you when you walked out of my room.  You wouldn’t be able to walk properly because of the thorough fucking I gave you, pounding you hard into the mattress.  Oh, yes.  I could do this to you all night long.”  

“But I won’t, because I have work to do tonight,” he said coldly. He moved quickly, flipping and pinning Kitty underneath him, hooking her leg over his shoulder and brutally shoving his throbbing cock into her. Kitty screamed, arching her back off the bed, her arms making to grab his shoulders as he ruthlessly began to pound into her. Before she could however, James took both of her wrists in one hand and forced them above her head, taking his belt from the side of the bed. “Make sure you remember who you work for and that you’re mine, do you understand? Mine,” James said punctuating himself with rough thrusts. He bound her wrists together before binding them to the bedpost, not caring if they left angry red marks on her delicate skin. “After you finish talking to Sally Donovan, you come back here and wait for me, do you understand? Do you understand?” 

Kitty nodded, trying to keep her senses intact. Her eyes rolled back into her head as he set a brutal pace. The headboard banged rhythmically against the wall in time with his thrusts. Kitty moaned again, not caring who could hear them.  

He took one hand, slapping her breasts hard before slipping it between their bodies and towards her aching clit. His pace quickened even more as he found it, roughly rolling it between his fingers. Kitty screamed again and rolled her hips to meet his as her orgasm began quickly building. “Oh, goddamn it, more, you fucker  - more,” she demanded. His hand met her pale breast, bringing another stinging slap. As if to punish her, James came to a complete stop, his cock barely brushing the outside of her pussy. Kitty moaned again, thrusting her hips forward trying to take him back inside. 

“Now, now, now, Kitty. You know the rules. When I fuck you, I get to speak. Not you. Remember that,” James said, his voice dipping low as he thrust particularly hard into her. Kitty howled as the tip of his cock brushed the very depth of her. “Now, what’s the rule again, Kitty?” James said, pulling back and almost all the way out. 

Kitty remained silent, her eyes wide and dark with lust, begging her lover to take her. James laughed at Kitty’s distress. 

“You may speak,” he finally said, bending down and taking her nipple between his teeth. He nipped her lightly as she spoke. 

“I’m to be quiet while you’re fucking me,” Kitty gasped out, arching her back again as he roughly shoved his entire length into her.  Moriarty held her down as she tried to roll her hips up. 

“Good girl. Such a good little girl. My little cock slut,” James said once again taking up his punishing pace. His thrusts sent Kitty backwards into the headboard. She bit her lips in a weak attempt to stifle her moaning. Suddenly, James pulled out all the way as Kitty whimpered at the loss of his cock. She could feel wetness leaking out of her as she took lungfuls of air in.  He smiled darkly as he placed his hands on her hips and forced her to turn around. Kitty’s head was shoved down on the mattress as he forced her legs apart and hips were lifted up in the air. _There are going to be marks on my wrists,_ Kitty thought before James started pounding in her again. James’ hand slipped under her again, his fingers finding her clit. He rolled the sensitive flesh several times as he continued to fuck her.  The sound of their harsh breathing marked by the sound of skin against skin and the creaking of the bedsprings.  

Kitty could feel her orgasm fast approaching and knew she wouldn’t be able to contain herself for much longer.  James, feeling her body tense in anticipation, slowed his assault on her body, teasing her.  Kitty buried her face into the mattress, stifling her urgency.  James smiled and rewarded her with his brutal pace again.  Finally, Kitty wailed her release, sobbing incoherently into the mattress. James grabbed her hips with both hands and picked up his pace even more before finally coming himself. 

Kitty remained silent and still as James’ body pinned her to the bed. She stifled her gasp as he pulled out of her.  She remained limp, feeling the sweat roll off her body.   

“Now, get the fuck out of here. I don’t want to see your fucking face until you’ve got something good to tell me,” James said before he pushed her out of bed and onto the floor. 

Kitty quickly pulled on her clothes, not caring that she was staining her clothes with their shared fluids.  She limped her way out of the house, feeling Moriarty’s hands still on her and not dignifying the leer that Sebastian Moran gave her from his bedroom as she slammed the door shut. 

*** 

Molly stood outside the building that she knew was Irene’s brothel. She had never stepped inside one and truthfully, Molly was quite afraid to do so.  She hesitated on the doorstep knowing she was about to with the express purpose of seeking out the proprietress. _Oh, what will Mother think of me?_ Molly fretted and rubbed her hands together.  _It doesn’t matter.  Mother and Father are long dead.  There’s no one to rebuke me except for me._   Molly thought it only proper to formally thank Irene Adler for protecting her the other night.  

Never had anyone shown a positive interest in her since Miss Sally hired her to sing in her bar.  She knew that other people, including the kindly Doctor Watson and Sheriff Lestrade, thought of her as young and naive and most certainly not worth any more of their time than was necessary.  Molly didn’t blame them, naturally, they had their hands full trying to keep the peace in this town.  Molly smiled warily at herself.  Never in a million years had Molly Hooper thought that she would be so far from home.  _Well, Chicago isn’t really home now, is it?_ It was tragic that Molly was left to herself after the sudden death of her parents but what was one to do?  _One shouldn’t fold in on oneself._  

Miss Irene had shown her a bit of kindness - _No more than that, she protected you. -_ from the mess that was going on. She sighed. _I suppose anyone would’ve tried to protect me,_ she thought a little bitterly. But it was what happened afterwards that gave Molly a small insight into Irene’s true character. 

“Come on, let’s get you settled and away from this mess,” Irene said gently, pulling Molly away. 

“You should go see Doctor Watson,” Molly said, fussing with her clothing. 

“Why?”  Irene asked, giving her a look. 

“Because...because of what happened...” Molly said, worrying her lip and trying not to upset the other woman. 

“Yes, well. It’s not like it hasn’t happened before,” Irene said brittlely and turned away. 

“Oh,” Molly said softly and blushing madly. “Please, let me help you then,” she then said gently. 

A beat passed as Irene paused, not knowing what to say. “You are so very kind,” Irene finally said. “I don’t think I deserve such kindness.” 

“Don’t say that! Everyone deserves a little kindness from time to time,” Molly said, aghast and began to pull Irene towards her dressing room. 

Irene smiled shyly and let Molly lead the way. 

*** 

Now, here she was, still standing outside of Miss Irene’s brothel. _I suppose Mother wouldn’t have used the word “Miss.” But then again, there are many things different between Mother and I,_ Molly thought a little bitter. _Poor Mother. I hope she’s happier now with that gentleman. Perhaps, I’ll send a letter to her...perhaps not,_ Molly thought as memories flooded her. _There were many reasons why I left Chicago. Let’s not go over them again._  

Molly straightened her shoulders and opened the door into the brothel. The inside was cool and dark, decorated with deep reds, a large and ornate chandelier hung from the ceiling with a few candles already - or still - lit, heavy velvet curtains hung in the windows and doorways, ready to block sound or the sun from coming into the rooms.  Provocative paintings hung here and there, mostly of reclining, nude women their pale flesh on display for the audience to gaze upon, causing Molly to blush furiously as she quickly looked away from the paintings. A large bar lined one wall of the room, filled with many exotic liquors. A blonde and petite woman was polishing several glasses when Molly walked in. Molly met her eyes as the blonde nodded politely at her. Molly wanted to say something but her gaze was caught by a the instrument sitting in the corner of the room.  

Molly’s gaze lingered at the beautiful grand piano, the lid closed firmly on the keys. She ran her hands lightly over the cover, marveling at the coolness of the black shine. _I wonder who gets to play this beautiful instrument,_ Molly thought wistfully. Sheet music was carefully stacked on the top of the piano as she glanced at the music, making her smile. _Someone loves to be dramatic._  

Bookcases lined one wall of the room filled with classic and contemporary classics, something Molly definitely did not expect. The sitting room smelled faintly of lavender, jasmine and bergamot.  Morning glories, white lilies, and lemon blossoms filled vases here and there.  The overall effect was one of warmth, inviting and very very intimate. 

A quiet cough made Molly turn her head towards the person. Molly turned red as she finally noticed Irene sitting in a dark red wing-back chair next to a warm hearth. Irene was smiling gently at her and when Molly’s eyes met Irene’s, Irene stood up and walked over to the younger woman. 

“Miss Hooper, what brings you here?” Irene asked with the same gentle tone in her voice. 

“I...I came here to thank you,” Molly said stammering, still glancing at the grand piano. 

“Thank me? Thank me for what?” Irene said, genuinely confused and a bit amused by Molly. 

Molly reddened. _She couldn’t have forgotten so easily?_ Molly took a deep breath, “For saving my life the other night and for giving me a bit of courage.” _Oh, I shouldn’t have come here. What a fool you are, Molly Hooper!_  

Irene blinked slowly as Molly worried her bottom lip. Finally, Irene found her voice. “I...thank you,” Irene finally said and smiled at Molly.  Molly finally met Irene’s eyes and found herself staring at her. 

_Oh, my god,_ Molly thought wildly and smiled back. Her heart thumped loudly in her chest. 

*** 

Kitty soaked herself in the tub, trying to relax her sore and aching muscles. _God, every encounter with that man is going to shave a fucking year off my life,_ Kitty thought miserably. _I don’t know if he’s gonna snap one day and kill me while he’s fucking me senseless._ The thought made her shiver. _I have to be on my guard. Get the story and then get out. You don’t want to continue to provoke that bear._  

Kitty sighed and finally got out of the tub, readying herself to go seek out Sally Donovan. As a rule, Kitty didn’t make friends with women - their information was never reliable and tinged with jealousy and hatred - never mind the fact that women always thought her to be too mannish, too forward, so unlike them. The thought of being someone like...Molly Hooper made her stomach churn. _Honestly, that little thing can’t possibly take care of herself._  

Kitty took care to dress herself properly, almost to the point of primness. She wanted Sally Donovan to know that she was _no one’s doxy._ She grimaced at her reflection. _In order to gain the confidence of others, you’ll have to don some disguises,_ Kitty thought warily, as she straightened the dark auburn hair on her head. _Oh, how I hate this. Stop it, Katherine Mary Reilly. You’re a newspaper woman. Start acting like it._ She gave herself one last withering glance in the mirror and headed out the door. 

*** 

Kitty sat herself in a quiet corner of the bar, observing everyone in the room. It was still early enough in the evening that there were few people in the establishment. Sally, naturally, was working at the bar with a faraway look on her face. Her piano player, a fellow whose name she never bothered to learn was sitting on a barstool talking half-heartedly to Sally, not noticing that she wasn’t paying attention. She saw no sign of Sherlock Holmes, John Watson or Sheriff Lestrade, which wasn’t unusual but if she was going to get any information out of Sally, Kitty was going to have to work fast before Holmes came in and saw what she was doing. _He seems to be an irritating fool, but I know he knows James and will likely suspect what I’m trying to do._ She took a liberal swallow of her drink and walked up to the bar before settling herself down near Sally and the piano man. 

“Finished so soon?” Sally asked lightly.  Her face gave away nothing.  

“No, just starting,” Kitty said slipping an easy smile on her face. 

Sally glanced at her, narrowing her eyes just a bit. Kitty worried that Sally might recognize her from Moriarty’s... _entourage_ , but before that happened customers called Sally’s attention. Kitty watched through the mirror as Sally tended to their orders, noting the grace and efficiency of Sally’s movements.  Sally paid attention to details and nothing seemed to escape her notice.  _In a different time, in a different world, Sally would’ve made a great police officer._  

Kitty gently set her glass down on the bar and waited patiently for Sally to return. 

“Can I get you something else?” Sally asked when she came back to Kitty. 

“Yes, another of the same, please,” Kitty said as she thought about her story and how she would write it.  Kitty pushed aside the intense desire to be almost anywhere else than here in Westbrook.  _One certainly can’t become famous writing in a backwater like this one._  

Sally nodded and went to fill her order. She set her order in front of Kitty, startling the other woman out of her pensive thoughts. 

“Penny for them?” Sally asked, smiling.  Kitty noticed that the smile didn’t reach her eyes.  

“Oh, what?” Kitty said, shaking her thoughts.  _This will not do to be distracted._  

“A penny for your thoughts. You were long gone and far away from here,” Sally said, eyeing her carefully. 

“Oh, right. It’s nothing,” Kitty said, almost missing the opportunity that was presenting itself to her. “How long have you been in Westbrook?” 

Sally blinked a little, not quite expecting that question to be asked of her. 

“Oh, almost ten years. Why do you ask?”  Sally asked.  

“So, you’ve seen a lot of things,” Kitty said, not bothering to answer Sally’s question.  _Damn, I’m going to lose her if I don’t move fast._  

“Yes. Yes, I have,” Sally said, stopping what she was doing and leveling the other woman with a look. “Why are you asking,” Sally said, her voice neutral. 

“Tell me, what do you think of Sheriff Lestrade?” Kitty asked, again brushing Sally’s question aside.  Kitty knew that she was fast losing her ground with Sally Donovan.  

Sally didn’t answer, just starting down Kitty, calculating the other woman.  

“Okay, how about John Watson?”  Kitty asked trying for another tactic. 

Sally once again, didn’t answer her. 

Kitty smiled at the other woman but when Sally didn’t smile back, Kitty’s smile slid off her face. “Miss Donovan,” Kitty said, leaning over the bar, her voice low and dangerous. “There’s a new sheriff coming to town and he’s gonna rid the entire place of people like you, Lestrade, and anyone else who dares cross his way,” she said, losing her patience and the mask from her face. 

Sally couldn’t hide the surprise that lit her face or the gasp. She took a step back away from the other woman. 

“I’ll be seeing you soon, Miss Donovan,” Kitty said smiling dangerously and leaving the bar. 

*** 

As the train crept closer to her destination, Miss Stewart started primping and putting away her things.  She was no fool, this particular assignment her employer gave her wasn't located in the most exotic of locales but Adelaide Stewart wasn't one to shy away from a challenge.  She considered her options and the best plan of attack before deciding on the most straightforward of plans.  Sherlock Holmes might be amenable if he knew what her mission was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter is taken from Johnny Cash's, "God's Gonna Cut You Down."


	4. The Sole Regret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pieces are falling into place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What the fuck.
> 
> No, seriously. What the fuckity fuck? I don't expect *anyone* to be reading this shit. But if you do, I can tell you that it amounted to 24 pages in my google docs.

 

A distant bell sounded in the distance, marking the noon hour.  Sherlock sighed and scanned the town’s streets for any signs of life.  The sun beat down on everything and anything that moved, driving people indoors and away from the harsh light.  Sherlock frowned and made his way to under the shade of the town’s gazebo where he found Sheriff Lestrade and John quietly talking.  Why they were under the gazebo and not somewhere more private didn’t concern him.  

 

They immediately stopped and turned when the Englishman approached the small structure.  But he paid them no mind, waving a hand at them to continue their conversation as he found an unoccupied bench and sat down, taking off his hat and wiping his brow.  He was so very, very hot.  Bloody town.  How can anyone tolerate this?   Sherlock closed his eyes briefly, letting their conversation wash over him.  

 

“The fellow, James Dodd, says that his friend, Michael Emsworth, was injured in the war but hasn’t heard from him in several months,” Lestrade said thoughtfully.  Sherlock opened his eyes partially to observe the two men talking.  Lestrade was leaning against the fence, his hat pushed off his forehead, his arms crossed.  He looked worn and frayed.  Sherlock squinted closely at the Sheriff.  He has been doing this for too long without the proper team behind him.  He refuses help from the official channels because he doesn’t trust them.  But yet, he trusts the de facto physician of the town.  Interesting.

 

“Were they close?” John asked, staring off into the distance and listening carefully to his friend.  John sat with his back to Sherlock but he could see the lines of tension running through John’s shoulders.  Sherlock turned his attention to the other man, trying to suss out anything useful.  Military.  Used to following and giving orders.  Inserted himself as Lestrade’s second in command.  Doesn’t trust easily.  Running away.  

 

“Yeah, they were.  Dodd says that his friend wouldn’t have gone off without telling anyone,” Lestrade said.  “He tried to contact his father’s friend - who was a colonel in the Southern army, by the way - but every time he seemed to give him the brush-off.  The third time, the colonel pointed a shotgun to his face and told him to get off his property.  Dodd said that he had a bad feeling about the whole thing,” Lestrade said.  “I’m too tied up right now to give this a proper looking.”

 

John gave Lestrade a look that spoke volumes.  

 

“John,” Lestrade said, staring him down.

 

“Well, we can’t go on a gut feeling,” John finally said, breaking eye contact.  “Maybe the fellow just wanted to forget the whole war.  I know plenty of people who did the same,” John said and looked back at Sherlock.  “God knows, I’m one of them,” he muttered, wiping his hand over his eyes.

 

Sherlock’s keen glance took in the former soldier’s posture, his broad shoulders hunched forward a bit, trying to shield himself from the either the heat or the memories that haunted him.  Sherlock paused, his breath catching.  There was something startlingly real in the sadness that John Watson cloaked himself in.  Sherlock felt an undeniable urge to wrap himself in that same sadness to understand the man who wore it.

 

John caught Sherlock’s eye and raised an eyebrow in challenge.  Sherlock met his gaze, his face showing no expression of what he was thinking.  SIlent moments passed by as Lestrade continued to survey the street. Sherlock knew nothing about the men standing before him and while he dismissed Lestrade outright, John was another story.

 

“What makes him think that we can do something about it?”  John finally said breaking the rising tension in the air.  Lestrade finally looked John’s way and noticed the Englishman on the other side of the structure.  

 

“We’re the only ones he can trust to actually try and do something it,” Lestrade said, after a short beat.  “I don’t know where people get this idea that we can fix all their ailments,” he said with a lopsided, wry grin.  

 

“You can always interview this James Dodd fellow and go from there,” Sherlock said, his deep rumbling voice rolling over the both of them.  John raised an eyebrow and Sherlock caught a glint of something there.  Amuse me, you giant git.

 

“What?  Do you want to go and interview the man?” Lestrade said incredulously.  

 

Sherlock bristled at Lestrade’s tone.  He straightened up and glared at the two of them. “Yes,” Sherlock said and turned his pale eyes on the sheriff.

 

“Why?”  Lestrade slowly countered, still untrusting.

 

“I’ve nothing else better to do,” Sherlock answered honestly, trying not to seem too eager for something to occupy his time.

 

Lestrade and John exchanged looks as Sherlock looked on.  John shrugged before standing up.  “I’ll go with him,” he said before Lestrade could answer.  “You go over to Sally’s to see what you can dig up,” John continued soothing Lestrade.  He fixed his hat on his head before saying, “Well?  Shall we go see what James Dodd has to say?”

 

Sherlock nodded, taken aback by John’s easy inclusion.  He had fought almost tooth and nail for Dimmock to allow him any cases at Scotland Yard.  

 

“Greg,” John said, tipping his hat.

 

“John.  Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade said, still trying to regain his composure.  “No heroics,” he said sternly.  “As if anyone in this godforsaken town listens to me,” he muttered.

 

“No.  No heroics,” John said, biting his smile.

 

John and Sherlock walked in an easy silence for a while before Sherlock turned to John.  “Thank you,” he said, sincere.

 

“For what?”  John said, curious.  He turned to look at the Englishman beside him.  Sherlock was looking off into the distance, eyes scanning everything around him, not paying attention to the other man.  If he is as brilliant as I think he is, being in this town must be incredibly difficult for him.  John felt a pang of pity for the man but quickly squashed it down, knowing instinctively that it would only garner him a sneer.  His focus began scanning the horizons for any possible threats.  

 

“For allowing me to come with you to see what Mr. Dodd has to say,” Sherlock said.  “It was rather...difficult to convince Scotland Yard that I could be of some service to them at all times.  Eventually, after solving their most mundane cases I was allowed to consult with them on those that were out of their ken....which, inevitably was most of them.”

 

“Are you always this formal and arrogant?” John asked, amusement coloring his voice. He turned again to his companion and smiled, his eyes crinkling at the edges. Sherlock tried to ignore the look and to keep his gaze neutral and ahead of him.  His mind whirled at the possibilities of the case ahead of them.  

 

“Most likely,” Sherlock said, quirking a corner of his mouth.  They exchanged a look before turning away and laughing softly.  “Most people see but do not observe.  When details escape people, they think they have seen the whole picture when in reality it is just a small piece. Also, when it comes to  thinking, well, it is always an exercise in restraint when dealing with Scotland Yard,” he said, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing any louder.

 

“I bet. I’m sure if you ever have the dubious pleasure of working with an American police force it will be even harder for you and your admirable restraint,” John said glibly. “I have a feeling that Scotland Yard found you difficult to work with no matter how good you are or how many crimes you solved.  I’m sure that no one appreciated it,” he added wryly.  

 

“No, they didn’t.  You have no idea how many crime scenes I’ve been tossed out,” Sherlock said smirking, eyes crinkling in bitter humor.

 

“Does it ever bother you?  They must talk about you,”  John added when Sherlock gave him a questioning look.

 

“No, why should it?” Sherlock asked, eyebrows raised in confusion. “Besides, it’s what people do.”

 

“Oh, I don’t know.  I know it would bother me, if I were in your shoes,” John mused.  “But then again, I have the feeling that you aren’t like other people,” John said, looking sideways at the other man.  “Or perhaps it was because you showed them up constantly or were an absolute terror to work with?” John said, eyes twinkling with humor now.  He already knew the answers, of course.  John had the distinct feeling that while Sherlock Holmes was brilliant, working with him was bound to be very trying.  

 

He couldn’t wait to see him action.

 

“Indeed,” Sherlock replied, feeling an unusual swell of pride in his chest.  Brilliant, John, Sherlock thought.  Seeing and observing if not understanding completely what you might be seeing.  Excellent, there might be hope for you yet.  Sherlock remained quiet as he let thoughts and observations filter through his mind.

 

“What?” John asked, as if sensing Sherlock’s thought process.

 

“Hmm?  Oh, nothing,” Sherlock answered, scowling slightly covering up his true thoughts.  “I was just thinking about the little information that Lestrade gave us and how little use they are to us.”  

 

“Ah, yes, that,” John said.  Great big bloody ego on that one, John thought, expression amused .  It’s a wonder that anyone would work with him.  “Mr. Dodd is staying at Mrs. Turner’s boarding house for the time being,” John said, schooling his face into something more neutral.

 

“Ah, yes.  Mrs. Turner.  I believe she doesn’t like me very much.  Considers me to be ‘trouble,’ if I heard correctly,” Sherlock said before he was able to catch himself.

 

John turned, his expression sly and incredulous.  “Heard correctly or eavesdropped,” John said innocently.  “ Mrs. Turner does like to have a nice fresh breeze through her sitting room,” he added without a hint of sarcasm.

 

Sherlock had the grace to blush slightly at being caught out while John gave in to his amusement and smiled.  

 

“I suppose that Mrs. Turner would say something like it,” John said.  “She considers me trouble too.  Unless, of course, I’m treating an ailment of her’s and then she won’t go to the real town doctor.”

 

Sherlock smirked and glanced sideways at his companion, noting his sun-bleached hair and bright blue eyes.  John quirked another smile at the Englishman while Sherlock felt something shift subtly in his chest.

 

“What?” Sherlock asked, catching John’s smile and ignoring the feeling.

 

“What?”  John said, mimicking Sherlock.

 

“You were smiling,” Sherlock pointed out, a little peevishly.

 

“Yes, I do that from time to time,” John said, arriving at Mrs. Turner’s door.  Before Sherlock could ask any further, he turned to Sherlock and paused.  “Well, I’ll follow your lead,” he said a little embarrassed.  

 

Sherlock, surprised whipped his head around to face John.  “What?  Why?”

 

“Well, you are the detective, consulting or not and I am just the former soldier and medical doctor.  My interview skills with suspects and witnesses are not quite up to par,” John said, smiling

crookedly.  “I should probably figure out how to conduct a proper interview from you anyway before you leave.”

 

Sherlock blinked before he answered.  “Thank you,” he said slowly thinking about the way John had said ‘before you leave.’  John nodded before quirking an eyebrow in question.  “Before you knock, just stay quiet, observe, and follow my lead.”

 

John nodded and knocked on Mrs. Turner’s door.  They stood quietly while listening to Mrs. Turner walk through the house to answer the door.

 

“Yes, Doctor Watson?” she asked, pointedly ignoring Sherlock.

 

“We would like to speak with James Dodd.  Sheriff Lestrade told us that you are renting a room to him?” Sherlock said smoothly, asserting himself.

 

Mrs. Turner turned and blinked, before straightening up and saying,  “Why should I let you harass my tenants? I’ve heard about you, Mr. Holmes. I know that you are a drug addict sent here to clean up by your older brother and that you have liaisons with other men. Of course, I’m not going to let you set foot in here! And you, Dr. Watson, how could you possibly associate yourself with a known queer? ”

 

Before John could answer, Sherlock took one long look at Marie Turner, eyes hard and mouth set in a firm line. The angles of her face were hard and severe as were the cut and color of her clothes. No, John thought swallowing his response, life hasn’t been gentle with you, Mrs. Turner. John swallowed and hoped his expression was a neutral one. He snuck a glance at Sherlock and noticed how hard and cold his eyes had become. I hope he never turns that gaze on me.

 

“The last time you let someone ‘harass one of your tenants,’ you accidentally let that person beat your daughter and kidnap your grandchild. They never found your son-in-law or grandchild.  It wasn’t your fault, naturally, but you feel that it was and so does your daughter.  You are a helpful sort of person and want to be seen as such, however, with that event and your overall general personality leads me to believe that this suspicious and paranoid behavior isn’t a recent development but one born of necessity,” Sherlock said finally pausing. John glanced over at Mrs. Turner and sympathized with the poor woman. It was one thing to live with awful memories, quite another to have a complete stranger dredge them up viciously.

 

“How dare you,” Mrs. Turner began. She was several shades of dark red and increasing with every second.

 

“Perhaps,” Sherlock continued, ignoring Mrs. Turner completely, “you had a family member who terrorized you and your siblings? Most likely your father.  Ah, but there is something else in your past that you are bothered by.  Something else that still haunts you to this day,” Sherlock gazed at Mrs. Turner whose anger was gone and was replaced by fear.  “I will not harm you, Mrs. Turner.  For all my callous nature, I don’t intentionally harm people nor do I want to.  It wasn’t your fault, your husband was drunk.  Ah, I can see the surprise in your eyes.  How could I possibly know about the drunk husband?  Your reaction to me when I first arrived is evidence enough.  Though I’m not here to dry out, I am committed to cleaning up enough and remaining that way,” Sherlock said pausing, his stormy eyes  momentarily alighting on Mrs. Turner’s door frame.  Sherlock took a deep breath.  “I am no mind reader, Mrs. Turner.”   John moved forward to help guide Mrs. Turner into her sitting room where he gingerly set her down on a chair and went to get her a glass of water.  Sherlock glanced at John and nodded slightly indicating that John should say something.  

 

“Mrs. Turner we are not here to harass Mr. Dodd.  He came to Sheriff Lestrade because of concern and we are here to follow up on it.  That’s all,” John said quietly.  

 

Mrs. Turner turned her eyes on John and nodded.  “Mr. Dodd is up on the third floor.  I was just on my way to see if he wanted something to eat.  He’s usually up before now and this is very much unlike him,” she said before gripping John’s arm.  “You don’t think he’s...” she said trailing off.

 

“Mrs. Turner, I don’t know what to think yet.  May we go upstairs to see him?”  John said, patting her hand.

 

“Yes, yes of course,” she said and slumped back in her chair.  Before Sherlock and John reached the stairs, she called out to Sherlock, “Mr. Holmes...I apologize for my previous behavior.  You are absolutely correct and I have no idea how you were able to tell all that from one glance.”

 

Sherlock barely paused, tipping his hat and starting up the stairs with John following not too far behind him.

 

“Is that typical behavior?” John asked.

 

“Of whom?  Me or the people I interview?” Sherlock said.

 

“Both, I suppose,” John replied.

 

“Yes,” he said without missing a beat.

 

“Ah, I see.  Right then.  Let’s get this over with,” John muttered, shaking his head.

 

The approached the door and instantly John knew something was...off.  John immediately put a hand on Sherlock’s arm, arresting his movement.  He nodded towards the door and pulled out his gun.  Something was not right and it wasn’t sitting well with him.  John now didn’t care about following Sherlock’s lead with interviewing James Dodd, an unsettling thought popped up in John’s mind.  

 

He indicated to Sherlock to knock on the door.

 

“Mr. Dodd?  Are you awake?  It’s Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.  We’re here investigating your claim regarding your missing friend?”  An eerie silence came from the other side of the door.  John nodded to Sherlock again who knocked on the door with more force.  “Mr. Dodd?  Are you there?”  Sherlock glanced back at John who nodded.  Sherlock carefully turned the knob before John nudged him aside and threw open the door.  

 

What greeted them shocked and sickened them to their core.  There lying in his bed was James Dodd,

his throat slashed, his head barely attached to his body.  His eyes were wide in fear and lips curled back in complete fright.  Dodd’s hands clenched the sheets and held out in front of him, trying to defend the oncoming attack.  His blood soaked the bed and the rug underneath.  This was not an easy death.  Surely James Dodd was screaming, begging for his life.  Why did no one hear him?  Sherlock thought uneasily.  Already the body was attracting flies and the smell alone was enough to make lesser men retch in agony.  

 

John sighed, eyes hard as he tucked his gun away.  He looked over at Sherlock who was busy cataloguing what was in the room.  

 

“I’ll have Mrs. Turner go and fetch Lestrade,” John said, sighing.  “Tell me if you see anything out of the ordinary.”  Sherlock nodded absently examining the room in detail, tuning John out.  James Dodd, veteran of the American Civil War.  Fought for the the North.  Lived in the woods in the Northeastern part of the US.  Two sisters, no living parents.  Shot in the leg, honorably discharged.  Sherlock frowned in thought, knowing full well who was the most likely person behind this gruesome murder.  Proving it might be the easiest part of this crime, bringing Moriarty to justice will be the harder of the two.  But why?  What does James Dodd have to with anything?

 

A movement caught Sherlock’s eye.  The window was wide open with the white curtains fluttering in the breeze.  Papers, clothing and other debris were scattered across the room.  The murderer was looking for something.  But what?  Sherlock walked carefully around the perimeter of the room, bending down from time to time to examine a piece of paper, a smudge mark or anything awkwardly out of place.  He was kneeling by the edge of the rug, careful not to get blood on his trousers when John returned with Sheriff Lestrade.

 

“Oh, holy hell,” Lestrade muttered, taking in the gruesome sight.  

 

“This man has been dead for at least a day,” Sherlock said.  “But without the proper equipment, I cannot pinpoint the actual time of death.  The cause of death is obvious, naturally.”

 

“Naturally,” Lestrade said, an edge to his voice.  Sherlock noticed that the sheriff kept flicking his eyes back to the body before turning his gaze elsewhere.  His body was tense and he was breathing heavily through his mouth.  

 

“Close the door, John,” Sherlock said, “lest we sicken Mrs. Turner’s other borders.  

 

John nodded, making for the door.  Before he got there, however, Lestrade beat him to it, leaving the room and closing the door behind him.  

 

“I’ll go question, Mrs. Turner,” Lestrade’s muffled voice said through the door.

 

“Right, you do that,” Sherlock said, smirking.  He caught John’s eye.  “What?”

 

“Not good, Sherlock.  Not good at all.  Lestrade does not regularly deal with such gruesome dead bodies.  Usually the deaths around here occur outside where the sun, heat and animals have a chance of taking care of the...messier parts of these deaths.  But this one, this one is vicious and it’s sending a message to someone,” John said, noting the subtle shift in Sherlock’s demeanor.

 

“You are right.  It is sending a message,” Sherlock said cryptically and avoided John’s eyes.  

 

“This has everything to do with Moriarty, doesn’t it,” John said, his lips pressed into a thin line, his displeasure evident in his body language.

 

Sherlock nodded, trying not to give too much away.  

 

“Did you find anything while I was out?” John finally said, breaking the tension.  

 

“They were obviously looking for something,” Sherlock said, glad to be talking of something else.  “But it’s not in this room, “ he said and stopped, his eyes growing hazy and distant. John remained quiet as Sherlock worked something out in his head. Amazing, John thought, simply amazing. It must’ve been something to see him in action in London. If only... John stopped the thought before he could fully form it. He frowned and went back to studying the body. There is no room for what ifs. It’s done and there is nothing I can do about it.

 

“This bed and rug are done for,” John muttered, trying to avoid the blood.  Sherlock nodded absently, his gaze falling to a book on the bedside table.  Something was off about this volume of slim poetry.  Sherlock picked up the volume, flipping through the pages.  Almost in the middle of the book was a carefully folded piece of paper - a telegram.  He picked up the telegram carefully, placing the volume back onto the bedside table and read the telegram.  Sherlock made a soft noise, catching John’s attention.

 

“Did you find something?” John asked.

 

“Perhaps,” he said and handed the telegram over to him.  “What do you make of this?”

 

“Not bloody much,” John responded.  

 

“The date, John, the date.  Look at the date,” Sherlock said, barely keeping the excitement out of his voice.

 

John frowned and looked at the telegraph again.  “Well, this was sent about two months ago,” he began.

 

“Yes.  What else?”

 

“Who’s Arthur West?” John finally asked.

 

“Exactly.  Just who is Arthur West and why would James Dodd have his telegram addressed to the bank president?”

 

“You think James Dodd is Arthur West?”  John asked slowly.

 

“Quite possibly.  Do you know much about James Dodd?” Sherlock asked.  John shook his head.  “But yet,” Sherlock said, picking up the man’s wallet, “it seems that there might not be a James Dodd.  Well, at least not here in Westbrook,” he added.  “Though he still is a soldier who was in the civil war before being shot.  He may have had a friend who was missing...”

 

“Or that friend just might be the bank president,” John said.

 

“Precisely, but we don’t have proof of that yet,” Sherlock said.  

 

“I’m sure we might find something if we continue to look,” John replied.

 

“Indeed,” he said, his eyes looking about the room again.  Sherlock spotted something askew on the small bookshelf on the other side of the room.  He walked over, tilting his head to the side to gaze at the titles of the books.  The books were jammed into the bookcase carelessly untouched by the intruder. Were you interrupted by something or are you just that stupid?   Sherlock caught sight of another piece of paper hidden in the shadows of the books, the corner peeking out.  He pulled the book free from the shelf, noting the title.  The weight of the book was off, much too light in his hands.  Sherlock carefully opened the book, finding it hollow.  Nestled inside was an ornate key with a strip of paper.  He hunched his shoulders throwing more shadows onto the slip of paper, trying to keep it from John’s prying eyes.  Once he was satisfied that John wouldn’t see, Sherlock unfurled the piece of paper.  Inside was a set of numbers and a name.  1128A.  Bruce Partington.  Interesting, Sherlock thought, mind leaping from idea to idea before settling on three ideas.  Another book caught his eye.  Sherlock pulled that one open and flipped through it.  He tucked the books under his arm and said “John.”

 

“Yes?” John asked distracted.

 

“Who is that odious man standing at the door?” Sherlock asked, not bothering to keep his contempt hidden.

 

“This ‘odious’ man has a name and it’s Jack Anderson,” said the man in the doorway.  He was a tall and obsequious looking man who wore an ill-fitted dark suit and a large top hat, both horribly out of place.

 

“Ah, yes. You must be the town undertaker and therefore also the town homicide detective,” Sherlock said contemptuously. He eyed the ferret-like man and sneered, “you’ve got the wrong tools for this, you haven’t enough specimen containers and you’ve left your glasses at home. Well, John, it looks like you have the clear advantage here.”

 

“What? He’s just an old soldier. He doesn’t know anything,” Anderson said belittling John.

 

Instantly, Sherlock went on the offensive, standing up to his full height and stalking over to Anderson who barely kept his composure. “Let me tell you, Mr. Anderson, Captain John Watson is more than a mere soldier. He has served his Queen and Country in one of the worst terrains known on earth, has been shot at, has saved lives before being shot in the shoulder and sent home. From there, he had a thriving private practice, one that he did not have to supplement with in dealing with death. So, yes, I do believe he knows a little bit about life and death, not unlike you, who knows only about dealing with death and only marginally so,” Sherlock said eyeing the coroner with distaste.

 

John bit the inside of his cheek to hide his smirk. Well, it seems Sherlock does know a little bit about restraint...though he doesn’t seem to employ much of it, John thought. He swallowed his wry amusement as he watched Anderson sputter with rage.

 

“Shall we, Doctor Watson?” Sherlock said.

 

“Yes, I believe we shall,” John answered. “I think we have enough to go on for the time being.”

 

***

 

Downstairs, they found a distraught Mrs. Turner clinging to Lestrade.  He saw them enter the room and shrugged minutely, silently asking if they had found anything.  John nodded and went to Mrs. Turner.

 

“It’s their fault!  If they weren’t here this wouldn’t have happened!” Mrs. Turner wailed into Sheriff Lestrade’s chest.  

 

John sighed.  “Did you really want to see the state of Mr. Dodd’s body,” John asked gently.

 

“No!  You don’t understand!  Trouble follows the both of you everywhere!  I’ve had all sort of unsavory people coming and going here lately and it’s only gotten worse since he arrived!” Mrs. Turner said, pointing a finger at Sherlock.

 

John and Sherlock exchanged looks.  “What sort of unsavory people, Mrs. Turner?”  

 

She turned her bright teary eyes on them, leveling both men with a hard gaze.  “If you,” she pointed at John, “hadn’t decided to come here we wouldn’t be having these types of problems.”  Mrs. Turner then turned to Sherlock, “and you, being a damn addict!  You’re all good for nothing!”

 

Sherlock’s gaze turned hard while Lestrade and John looked at each other aghast.

 

“Now, you listen to me, Marie Turner,” Mrs. Hudson said standing at the doorway.  “You have no right blaming other people for your own mishaps.  I told you what I thought of that lodger when you told me  about him.  I told you what might happen if you didn’t do your research about your lodgers. I told you but you refused to listen and now you’re trying to pass the blame off on someone else.  They are not at fault here and neither are you,” Mrs. Hudson said, her hands on her hips.  

 

Mrs. Turner stared back at her long time friend.  Mrs. Hudson met her gaze, hard and unwavering, challenging Mrs. Turner to say anything.  Finally, Mrs. Turner dropped her eyes and nodded, stepping back from Sheriff Lestrade.  “I suppose you have questions,” she said, drying her eyes, her voice still wavering and unsure.

 

“How long has Mr. Dodd been renting from you?”  Sherlock asked briskly.

 

“About six months, give or take a month,” Mrs. Turner said, lifting her chin slightly.

 

“Did he tell you much about himself?  Did you observe his habits?  Did he get much mail?” Sherlock said launching into his questions.  He felt a restraining hand on his arm.  Sherlock looked up to find John beside him, a calming effect on the whirling questions in Sherlock’s mind.

 

“He said that he fought for the North in the Civil War but was honorably discharged when we was shot.  I believe he was pretty bitter about it,” Mrs. turner said pausing.  “Actually, to tell you the truth, I don’t think he much liked fighting for the North.  He never really talked to me or to anyone else in the house.  He kept to himself pretty much all the time.  He went out at odd times of the day and night, sometimes he came back very dirty and dusty.  One time he came back smelling strongly of smoke.”

 

John and Lestrade exchanged glances once again, both men remembering the gruesome murder and fire of the family of homesteaders outside of the town.  

 

“He never received much mail.  Though there was that telegram that seemed to rattle him, though I’m not sure why he and the bank president would have anything in common,” Mrs. Turner said.  

 

“The bank president gave him a telegram?”  John asked.

 

“I never got a good look at him and Mr. Walter did not stay long after he delivered the telegram to him,”  Mrs. Turner said.  

 

“I think it’s time to go visit Mr. Walter,” John said.  Sherlock nodded.  

 

“I’ll have Mr. Anderson come by and pick up the body,” Lestrade said.  Mrs. Turner nodded.

 

“No need. The ferret is already upstairs,” John said sharply. Lestrade and Mrs. Turner blinked while Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock stifled their grins.

 

“One more question,” Sherlock said, clearing his throat.  Mrs. Turner looked at Sherlock.  “This wasn’t a quiet murder.  Why is it that no one heard him?”

 

Mrs. Turner said nothing for a moment.  “Well, I suppose everyone was out of the house,” she said thinking slowly.  An uncomfortable silence descended upon the room while she thought.

 

“If you think of anything else, please let us know,” John said, sensing Sherlock’s anger.  He looked at Lestrade with an unspoken question in his eyes.  

 

“You go on, John,” Lestrade said.  “It’s a messy business here, I’ll see if I can help Anderson.”  John nodded and quickly turned away.

 

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” John said quietly as they passed by their landlady.

 

“You’re quite welcome, John,” Mrs. Hudson said just as quietly.  “Go on, catch the murderer before he strikes again.”  

 

***

 

Valentine Walter watched the proceedings from afar.  He knew that John Watson and that Englishman would be coming and asking questions.  Valentine began to sweat, feeling it drip down his back, staining his clothes.  There was nothing he could do to escape, if escape was even possible.  He turned his eyes upwards, imploring god or whatever deity would listen to him to save him from the mess that he suddenly found himself in.  

 

No answer came.  

 

Time was running out.  He turned away from the scene, trying to think of a way to escape, not seeing the man who silently followed him.

 

***

 

“What do you think is going on?” John asked, glancing at Sherlock.

 

“I have several theories, but none will be valid unless we gather more evidence and interview several people,” Sherlock said.  “Obviously, this James Dodd character was mixed up with something - most likely Moriarty’s gang - and couldn’t deliver on whatever promise had made to them.  His murder was more of a retaliation rather than a silencing measure.  Dodd was hiding something, something big. ”  

 

John nodded, adjusting the gun at his hip.  

 

“Do you think that’s necessary?” Sherlock asked, his eyes looking at the gun.

 

“You never know when you might need a gun,” John said.  

 

Sherlock nodded and looked towards the bank.  They were nearly there when a very distinct gunshot and screaming was heard.  John and Sherlock glanced at each other before taking off at full run towards the bank with John’s gun in his hand.  They were met at the door of the bank by hysterical patrons spilling out into the streets.  John managed to grab a relatively calm looking young lady asking her what happened.

 

“He shot himself!  He just went and shot himself!  I don’t know why, he just did it!” She said, her voice nearly distraught while she wrung her hands.  

 

“Who shot himself,” Sherlock asked, shaking the girl slightly trying to make her focus.

 

She turned her large, wet eyes onto Sherlock and said, “the bank president.  Mr. Walter just killed himself in front of all of us.”  Sherlock nodded to her and strode right into the bank, John right on his heels.  Inside was a quiet, eerie sort of chaos.  Paper littered the floor, chairs overturned with the smell of gunpowder lingering in the air.  In the middle of the large bank lobby was the bank president, Valentine Walter, laying face up in a pool of his own blood.  His eyes were wide open staring at the ceiling in a mingle of disbelief, desperation and what looked like fear.  Walter’ head thrown back by the blast of the gun, his arms akimbo at his sides the gun not too far from his right hand.  

 

In the middle of his forehead was a neat hole, too neat for a handgun.  Sherlock frowned, leaning over Walter’ body to examine the bullet hole closer.

 

“What did you find?”  John asked peering at the body himself.

 

“He didn’t shoot himself,” Sherlock said.  He stood up and and whirled around looking towards the windows behind him.  He walked over to the back wall of the bank, jumping over the teller's counter and peered at the windows carefully.   Single pane glass, newly imported from Pennsylvania, gold paint, ostentatious, security severely lacking.  Interesting, this case keeps getting more and intriguing, Sherlock thought.

 

"What did you find?"  John asked as he made his way towards the other man.

 

"I believe he was assassinated," Sherlock said, waving his hand towards the window.  "See?  There's a single neat bullet hole right here.  It matches the shot in Walter' head.  Yes, eventually, Valentine Walter was going to shoot himself, but someone beat him to it.”

 

"One of Moriarty's men?" John said, feeling a tightness in his chest.

 

"Most likely," Sherlock replied.  “It was messy and the culprit had no patience.  

 

They remained in silence as they contemplated the possibilities of what it could mean.  "Sherlock," John said, slowly.  "I know this isn't the right time to ask, but you never told me your connection to Moriarty," he said, fearing the answer but needing to know what he was going up against.

 

Sherlock remained silent.  John glanced at him sideways and watched the minute  play of emotions on his face before settling on a neutral expression.  "He tortured and killed my lover in front of me," Sherlock finally said.  John's eyes went wide with shock.  

 

"Oh, god.  I'm so sorry," John said.  

 

Sherlock nodded curtly.  "You are right, however.  Now, is not the time for the explanations or apologies," he said before adding softly, "but I promise I will...tell you later, if you wish."  John nodded, still reeling.  All this pain in the world.  How do we stand it?  

 

"John!"  Lestrade said from the door.  "What the fuck happened?"

 

"I believe, Sheriff Lestrade, this murder is linked to James Dodd's murder," Sherlock replied.

 

"I thought this was a suicide," Lestrade said, pushing his hat back from his forehead.

 

"Not according to him," John said, gazing at the window again.

 

"It looks like a suicide," another voice said from behind Lestrade.

 

"That's because you're an idiot," Sherlock replied turning his attention to Anderson.

 

"And who exactly are you to be making such a statement?" Anderson said angrily. Truly, this man is an idiot, John thought.

 

"Sherlock Holmes, the World's Only Consulting Detective," Sherlock said imperiously.  "It's obvious, if you care to look.  First, the gun  is several feet away from him, as if it's been flung back by a different force.  Secondly, the bullet hole in his head is a different size that the caliber of the gun in his hand.  Third, there is no gun residue in Walter' hand.  Fourth, there's a bullet hole the same exact size in the window behind us.  Do your unnecessary examination, Anderson before you jump to any conclusions," Sherlock said.  

 

Lestrade nodded curtly while surveying the room.  "Tell me what happened here."

 

Sherlock and John exchanged glances before John nodded to Sherlock.  "Valentine Walter is somehow involved in James Dodd's murder."

 

"Do you think Valentine Walter killed James Dodd?"  Lestrade said, interrupting him.  Sherlock's eyes bored into Lestrade's head willing him to be quiet.  "Sorry," came the unapologetic reply.  

 

"No, I don't think he killed Dodd.  I believe the killers - and yes there are two of them - work for Moriarty and his gang," Sherlock said.

 

"Christ on high," Lestrade muttered.

 

"Indeed," Sherlock said.  "In Dodd's room we found a telegram addressed to Valentine Walter dated roughly about two months ago," Sherlock paused here, knowing how John would react.  "I also found a slip with a set of numbers and a name."  Sherlock didn't miss the narrow-eyed look that John gave him.  "It says Bruce Partington on it with a set of numbers, most likely the safe deposit box and not the actual combination."

 

"Right.  So, we need to find the vice president and ask him nicely for permission to get into this safe deposit box?"  Lestrade asked, his anger growing. “I’m tired of my citizens being gunned down in front of me. Once we find him, I won’t be asking nicely.”

 

"Yes," Sherlock said, nodding.

 

"Fine.  Anderson, please get this body out of here.  Gentlemen, let's talk," Lestrade said and led them outside.  Upon walking outside, Lestrade turned to Sherlock.  "You're not being particularly forthcoming with us, Mr. Holmes.  I would appreciate some cooperation here.  If you're as good as I think you are, you can help us solve this case."

 

"I need to know who this Bruce Partington is and what his connection is with James Dodd and Valentine Walter.  For right now, I am asking you to trust me before I make any conclusions," Sherlock said, his eyes steely.  Lestrade and Sherlock stared at each other in silence while John watched.  Sheriff Lestrade was a very convincing and intimidating man when he wanted to be.  One couldn't be a sheriff for long in any town without it.  But John had the feeling that Sherlock Holmes was too used to getting his own way and John knew that he was going to win.

 

"Fine, you have until tomorrow afternoon to tell me what you think you know about these murders," Lestrade said, finally.  "Right now, I have to go calm a bunch of spooked townspeople.  Just what I need right now," he muttered and walked off to talk to the bank patrons that were present.  

 

John looked at Sherlock hard before saying, "you kept that from me as well, didn't you?"

 

"Yes," Sherlock said, not bothering to lie.

 

"Why?"  

 

"I don't know you, honestly," Sherlock said.

 

John nodded and looked off into the distance.  He saw a thin wisp of smoke and imagined he could hear the train whistling in the far off distance.  "If we are to team up on this case, you're going to have to start trusting me."

 

Sherlock nodded adding, "and you as well."

 

John nodded.  

 

***

 

Sherlock and John walked back to Mrs. Hudson's boarding house in complete silence.  Both men were thinking about the murders and how they were connected to this Bruce Partington.  If Moriarty was involved, John didn't like where it may be going.  Fuck, even if it didn't involve Moriarty, I still wouldn't like where it was going, John thought bitterly.  Of all the dumb luck.  

 

Sherlock snuck a glance at the man walking  beside him.  This was a man used to action, most likely thriving on it.  Sherlock smirked on the inside.  A man after my own heart, he thought before frowning.  My own heart?  Where did that come from?   Just a phrase.  It's just a silly phrase.  

 

"Do you have any theories?" John asked breaking into Sherlock's thoughts.

 

"I have about seven theories," Sherlock replied getting his mind back on track.  "Listen, I want you to know that I don't eat while I'm on a case," Sherlock said, stopping John before they entered Mrs. Hudson’s house.  

 

“You first heard of Dodd when Lestrade told you about him, correct?”  John nodded.  “But nothing prior to it?”  John shook his head.  “His story about not being able to contact his friend might not be a bad place to start.  Until the morning then, we are stuck spinning our wheels.”  John nodded again and went to go inside when Sherlock stopped him.  “I...want to thank you,” he said hesitating.

 

“What?  Why?”  John asked.

 

“Because you allowed me to lead with Lestrade,” Sherlock said, his eyes boring into John’s.  

 

“Oh, well.  You’re welcome,” John said, a little thrown off.  “Like I said before, you’re the one who’s done this before.  I could stand to learn a few things from you.”

 

“Indeed,” Sherlock said and smiled crookedly.  “Good night,” he said and patted his arm a little awkwardly before brushing past the other man and heading up to his room.

 

“Good night,” John replied, blinking.  

 

***

 

The next day found Sherlock and John standing in front of a seemingly deserted homestead near the train tracks just outside the town.  There was little to no upkeep on the property and in the back of the main house was a dilapidated shed with one high and dirty window.  The animals that could be found on the homestead were much too thin and huddled closely together as if for protection.  John looked around him and despite the morning sun felt a little cold.  Something is so desperately wrong here, John thought.  What is going on?  

 

"What do you think we'll find here?"  John asked instead, not giving voice to the thoughts in his head, even the comforting presence of his gun at his side did nothing to help him.  He felt Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder.

 

“Relax your stance, Captain Watson,” Sherlock said, before letting his hand fall to his side.

 

John turned, astonished at Sherlock.  “When did I - ?” He asked before the sound of a shotgun being loaded sounded in his ears.  It took all of John’s willpower and most of Sherlock’s surprising strength to keep him from drawing his gun while pushing the taller man behind him.

 

“What do you want?”  A gruff, scratchy voice echoed from the door.  

 

John and Sherlock were standing not too far from the front door, looking down the barrel at the man holding the shotgun.  He was a tall, imposing figure with gnarled hands, a thick shock of white hair and piercing blue eyes.  John had heard what was said about this man - a former colonel with the Southern army, having seen action at many a bloody battle, particularly at Gettysburg.  Colonel Emsworth stood a good six feet, five inches, his stance was unwavering as was his hard stare.  When no answer came from either man, Emsworth once again barked, "I said what do you want?  I already told that damn Dodd that there was nothing I could tell him and to go fuck himself."

 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the former military man.  "In those exact words?" He asked.  Sherlock felt John tense beside him ready to protect him if needed.  He felt momentarily thrown sideways at the thought but quickly shoved it away, still feeling secretly pleased that John was ready to lay down his life for him.  

 

"Yeah, in those exact words, you English toff.  Now, get the fuck off my property," Emsworth said and leveled his shotgun at Sherlock and John.

 

Sherlock, still nonplussed at the entire situation said, "would it interest you, Colonel, to know that James Dodd was brutally murdered in his room yesterday?  He had his throat slashed and he bled out rather quickly. I know he came here asking you questions about your son, Michael."  

 

Emsworth blinked and then quickly lowered the gun, stepping outside his home.  "I didn't do it, " was all he said.  John noted that Emsworth's eyes had turned very large, his skin had paled and his hands had started to shake very badly. Most likely Sherlock noticed this too, John thought.  

 

"Now, why don't you tell us what your real conversation with James Dodd was," Sherlock said smoothly.

 

Emsworth nodded and he closed his eyes, trying to get his bearings straight before he started with the story.  He sat down heavily on one of the chairs sitting on the porch, making it groan loudly.  He vaguely gestured to the dusty chairs sitting nearby as a half-hearted attempt at hospitality.  He looked off into the distance, eyes cloudy with remembering.  John felt Sherlock twitch with impatience and before the other could say anything, John tapped him gently on the knee, willing Sherlock to be quiet.  Sherlock drew in a quick breath before becoming silent and still once again.

  
Both of them look at Colonel Emsworth expectantly.

 

“Most of my boys fought for the South, like me.  The youngest, Michael, fought for the North,” Emsworth began.  “Broke all our hearts. His mother, God rest her soul, took it especially bad.  Thought that all her sons should be fighting for the South.  Oh, the fights they would get in, it was terrible.  Nothing could change his mind, not even after his brothers tried to knock some sense into him.  She pleaded with me, she did, to make him fight for what she thought was right.  But I didn’t say a word to him.  He was that strong in his convictions.  I wasn’t going to break that, even if I didn’t believe it myself,” Emsworth said.  He drew an old pipe out, filled it with tobacco and began smoking away at it.  He was silent for a while caught between memories, shutting out the world around him.  John knew that look well.  Emsworth, John knew, was remembering the fighting he did and perhaps those that he lost.  

 

"I love all of my sons," Emsworth finally said, breaking his and John's painful reveries.  "Matthew, David, Joshua and Michael.  He left us in the middle of the night, leaving a note and made his way North.  We didn't see him - though, I could have sworn I saw him several times in the faces of the boys we were fighting.  Oh, but they were all boys weren't they?  Even us, the old grizzled ones.  We were boys still then too, pretending to be something that we weren't, fighting for something we thought would save us.  But the price was too high, the cost too dear.  Dear God, I wish I had never sent any of them off to war."  

 

"What did James Dodd want to know?" Sherlock asked quietly. Sherlock’s nerves were raw, he knew the type of answer that Emsworth was going to give and it made him sick and angry.

 

"That limp wristed sodomite?  He wanted to know where Michael was.  Said I was hiding him.  That no good nancy boy.  He wanted to know where I was keeping him and that I couldn't  stop him from finding Michael,"  Emsworth paused here before standing up abruptly and yelling, "Michael Emsworth is not here!"  

 

John heard a faint rustling from one of the sheds in the back.  The animals that were around were restless, making their discomfort known by their plaintive noises.  Emsworth grunted and sat back down in his chair, listening to the animals around them.   His hands shook badly as he balled them into fists, raging against something he hadn't named.  

 

"You shouldn't be here," Emsworth finally said, remembering that Sherlock and John were still on his porch.  He closed his eyes and put his head in his hands before continuing, muttering towards the floor instead of them.  "Dodd was here three times pestering me about Michael.  The first time, I was polite and told him that he wasn't here.  Dodd smiled and said okay.  The next week, he came back and asked me again about Michael, I told him again that I didn't know where he was.  The third time - the week after that - I told him again, for the last time that I didn't know where my son was and that the next time he saw me would be at the end of my shotgun," he said, all the fight leaving him.  "I'm afraid of what Dodd might have done to Michael while fighting beside him.  I know the war can do funny things to a person, I didn't know it could do that to him."  Emsworth was silent for a few more moments.  "I don't want him to end up...well...he wouldn't exactly be welcome back if he was," Emsworth said, barely able to say the words.  Sherlock peered closely at the older man, seeing the swirl of emotions on his face.  Sentiment will always be other people's downfall, he thought bitterly.  It seems to be mine as well.  

 

Emsworth finally stood up, indicating that it was the end of their interview with him.  He surveyed his homestead again and turned back to his front door, taking the shotgun with him.  He opened the door and shut it with finality, firmly locking it into place.

 

Sherlock and John looked just looked at each other, letting out the breath they were holding.  John shook his head and got up to leave.

 

I'll never understand people, Sherlock thought as they walked back into town.  

 

***

 

"Well, that got us nowhere," John said, bitterly.

 

"Indeed," was all Sherlock said.  

 

"We should see if Lestrade got us permission," John said, as they walked.  "There was something unusual going on at Emsworth place."

 

"I thought so as well. He's hiding something," Sherlock said, tersely.

 

"Or someone," John muttered.  "You don't think it's the killer, do you?"

 

"No, I don't think it's the killer, I think it's Michael Emsworth."

 

"What?"  John said, outraged.

 

"It makes sense.  Colonel Emsworth was nervous, didn't you see his eyes?  They kept going to the shed in the back as if there was something he didn't want us to see.  The animals in the yard were nervous as well, nothing made a sound.  Did you see that?"  Sherlock asked, his impatience bubbling to the surface.

 

"No, I didn't see it, but I felt it," John replied. “But did you see how large Emsworth’s eyes went when we mentioned Dodd’s murder? Or how his skin paled and his hands shook? You probably did,” he muttered.

 

"You mustn't rely only on your 'gut feeling.'  You must observe everything in detail," Sherlock said, taking on a lecturing tone and ignoring the undertone.

 

“But sometimes those gut feelings are what keeps me alive, Sherlock,” John said.  "But I suppose there is some wisdom in what you said," he said solemnly, seeing the riotous expression on Sherlock's face.  "Well, go on.  I know you have more than just one observation.  Let's hear it," John said, prompting Sherlock.

 

Sherlock nodded stiffly.  "You know he didn't approve of Dodd."

 

"Yeah, called him some pretty ugly names," John mused.  "I didn't get that feeling from Dodd but that doesn't mean that it isn't true."

 

"Correct," Sherlock said, slowly, choosing his words carefully.  

 

"Emsworth seemed pretty adamant that his son wasn't corrupted or defiled by the likes of Dodd," John laughed, bitterly.  "Not that it's any of his business," he added looking into the distance.  "I know it's not the popular opinion of this day and age but it shouldn't matter."

 

"What shouldn't matter," Sherlock asked slowly.

 

John's forehead wrinkled.  "One's sexuality, of course."  Sherlock's eyebrows shot up in surprise.  "It shouldn't matter, it really shouldn't but it does.  People make such a fuss and I don't know why.  Emsworth, for example, was worried that Dodd had "infected" his son, which is complete and utter bollocks.  There has been no scientific proof either way that homosexuality is transmitted in any such way."

 

For a moment Sherlock Holmes was completely and utter speechless.  "There is more to you than I anticipated," Sherlock said slowly.

 

John smiled wryly at him.  "I'll take that as a compliment."

 

"Back to the case?"  Sherlock asked, unable to stop the grin or the warm feeling from spreading throughout his chest.

 

"Yes, back to the case," John replied.

 

***

 

Miss Stewart found a stagecoach into town under the cover of night and settled herself in one of Mrs. Hudson’s empty rooms.  After enquiring about when meals would be served and the other guests in the house, she thanked the erstwhile housekeeper and retreated into her room to change.  Miss Stewart had a feeling that Sherlock Holmes was off investigating that nasty double murder, because despite what Mrs. Hudson thought, Valentine Walter’ death was not a suicide but most likely a murder.  While she may have guessed what Mr. Holmes was doing, Miss Stewart didn’t know where exactly his investigation had taken him.  

 

Nor would he appreciate her employer's interference, even if he wasn't here directly.  

 

In the meantime, Miss Stewart thought, it was time to see what the fuss was about regarding Miss Irene Adler.  Miss Stewart  heard a great many things while on her journey here and she was hoping that all of it was true.  She smiled to herself as she adjusted her dress and touched up her lipstick.  Missions are interesting, she thought slipping a discreet handgun into her stockings, but only if you know when to temper it with a bit of fun.  

 

***

 

“You think Emsworth is holding someone prisoner?”  John asked when they arrived back in town.

 

“Yes, I do and I have a good notion of who that someone might be,” Sherlock said.

 

“Care to fill me in?”  John prompted.

 

“No.  But we should stop for your medical supplies,” Sherlock said.

 

John sighed and nodded.  “Well, then what are we waiting for?  The night’s young and I feel like breaking the law.”

 

“That’s the spirit,” Sherlock said, smirking.

 

***

 

John and Sherlock kept to the shadows as the walked back to Emsworth’s homestead. They didn’t dare bring horses for fear of detection.

 

“Besides,” Sherlock said, “I don’t like riding horses.”

 

John merely snorted and said nothing.

 

They were within sight of the house when, Sherlock pulled John back behind the trees.

 

“Well, this is sudden, Mr. Holmes,” John quipped, a blush spreading across his face. He thanked his lucky stars that it was dark.

 

Sherlock blinked owlishly at the other man, trying to decipher his meaning.

 

“It’s a joke,” John finally said, reddening further.

 

“Obviously,” Sherlock said imperiously. If he noticed the blush then Sherlock was blissfully silent.

 

“Obviously,” John said just as mockingly as he smiled faintly, staring at the taller man. The moonlight made Sherlock’s face and eyes glow preternaturally. Sherlock smiled a little uncertainly at John as he stared at him.

 

“Well, are you ready?” Sherlock finally asked, breaking John’s thoughts.

 

John shook his head, clearing the cobwebs.  “Do you have vast knowledge in breaking the law?”

 

Sherlock didn’t answer, but only smirked.

 

“Of course you do.  Yes, yes, fine. Okay, I’ll follow you,” John said and sighed. “Though, I’m not sure why.”

 

“Perhaps that shotgun will make a better reason when it’s pointed at your face?”

 

“Point taken. Yes, but I’m not going in empty handed and if I think there’s danger, you will listen to me,” John said, steel suddenly present in his voice.

 

Sherlock nodded feeling oddly comforted that someone - a stranger - would be so protective of him. John noticed the odd look on Sherlock’s face. Sherlock signalled for him to stop moving. They doubled around to the back of the homestead where an oddly erected shed was. It was situated near the barn and had a small porch. But why does a shed need a porch, thought John. There was a very dirty window on the side of the shed where they could see a faint orange light coming in. The door was slightly ajar with low angry voices coming from the inside. John glanced at Sherlock who nodded grimly. He was right, there’s someone else on this homestead and Emsworth isn’t telling us about.

 

They paused at the edge of the house and waited for the owner of the voices to come out. Finally, just as their patience was running thin, out came Colonel Emsworth himself. He pulled a key out of his shirt pocket and locked the shed from the outside, but before he went back to his house, Emsworth hit the shed loudly.

 

“Shut the fuck up and go to sleep, you damn bastard!” He yelled angrily. Emsworth continued to mutter to himself, taking no heed of anything in the vicinity.  John and Sherlock looked at each other, waited a few more minutes until no sound came from the house and crept over to the shed. Clouds passed overhead obscuring their light and throwing everything into shadows.  The shed was small, derelict, and was barely holding together. It’s held together with anger and hatred, John thought. Light was creeping out of the barely flush wood panels and a muffled moaning sound came from the inside. Sherlock glanced at John who had a tight grip on his gun. To the side of the shed was a single pane of dirty glass. The light from inside the shed flickered continuously. John’s heart sped up as they crept closer and closer to the locked shed.

 

Why is it locked from the outside? Why would Emsworth keep anything in there, especially with a candle? John wanted to ask Sherlock these questions but kept his thoughts to himself. Someone has to be in there. Could it be the killer? Sherlock went right up to the window and peered in before rapping softly. On the other side of the window pane popped up a young man, his hair disheveled with wild eyes. He took a breathe but before he could scream, Sherlock put a finger up to his lips signalling for silence.

 

The man on the other side stared at Sherlock before nodding his consent. There is something terribly wrong here, John thought.  There was something...off about the man and John just couldn’t put his finger on it. Yes, he was terribly disheveled looking but something else about the man triggered something in John.  Something he hadn’t seen in at least five years.

 

“Sherlock, wait,” John whispered, reaching out to the other man. But Sherlock had already picked the lock, letting it hang from the door and stepped inside.  The sight they were greeted with churned John’s stomach.  Where have I seen this before?  The man on the other side was in obvious pain, his skin was dry and appeared stiff, he was missing fingers (And most likely toes.), his eyes were a milky white, and his joints seemed to be inflamed. “Sherlock, wait,” John said louder and pulled the other man back outside.

 

“What?” Sherlock said irritated.

 

“Can’t you see that he has leprosy?” John said glaring at him.

 

“No, what he has is worse than that,” said a voice behind him. “That boy of mine is an abomination to God’s green earth. He goes against everything I believe in.  I’m glad that sodomite is fucking dead and now the two of you are going to be joining him,” Emsworth said, stepping out of the shadows and cocking his rifle at Sherlock and John.  “I hate doing it, since y’all are just doing your job, but I can’t have the town knowing what he did in the war.”

 

“And what exactly did he do in the war?” John said, standing at full attention.

 

“Can’t you see the consequences?” Emsworth shouted. “He was with another man and laid with him as if they were husband and wife!  It’s not right or natural and it needs to be taken care of!”

 

“How exactly do you plan on ‘taking care’ of the problem?” Sherlock finally said.  The look on his face was thunderous.  

 

“Well now, I don’t think it takes a fucking genius to know how I plan on taking care of the problem,” Emsworth said, a gleam in his eye. “No one comes out here I’ve only had three visitors within the past three years. No one’s gonna notice when I up and disappear back to the east coast.”

 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Foolish. You seem to have forgotten that Captain Watson here is Sheriff Lestrade’s second-in-command. He’ll notice if he hasn’t shown up,” he said.

 

“Captain, huh? Which side did you fight for?” Emsworth said, turning his disbelieving eyes toward John.

 

“I didn’t fight your war.  There are other places in turmoil other than this land of your’s. I earned rank for Queen and Country in India, defending her territory and garnering myself a painful shot to the shoulder,” John said, his voice clipped.  “I don’t have to answer to your condensation. I’ve seen enough people die to last me several lifetimes. Now, put your gun down before you do something stupid.”

 

“He’s already done something stupid, haven’t you Father?” came a light and whispery voice.

 

“Michael,” Emsworth said, his voice hard as steel. “Get back in the shed.”

 

“Fuck you,” Michael Emsworth replied and pushed John and Sherlock out of the way. He pointed a gun at his father and pulled the trigger. Emsworth’s eyes grew wide as his son shot him dead, the force of the gun sending him flying backwards.  The shot rang out loud and clear through the desolate landscape, ringing in Sherlock and John’s ears.  “Damn, that felt good,” Michael said before turning the gun on himself and pulling the trigger a second time.

 

“No!” John said diving for the man. John caught Michael Emsworth as he died, lowering him to the dusty ground. “Damnit! Damn it all to fucking hell!”

 

Sherlock closed his eyes, slowly unclenching his fists.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, dear lord. What shit I've written...rewritten. Whatever.
> 
> Look, I seriously debated for two weeks before just saying fuck it posting this chapter up. My original beta readers have long since left, and for that I'm sincerely sorry, and I'm *still* debating my fucking ending. 
> 
> Jesus, I'm a mess.
> 
> I honestly thought about orphaning the series, but I've spent too much time and energy into this shitty piece not to lay claim on it.

**Author's Note:**

> My knowledge of the old west is severely lacking. If something just doesn't seem right, please let me know and I'll do my best to correct it.
> 
> Thank you for reading.


End file.
